The Hell-er-Nator II: Ghosting the Machine
by Ironbear
Summary: Just because the spell is broken, it doesn't mean that the nightmare is over. Halloween may be ended, but Xander and Cordelia are still on the run – and the Terminator is still hunting. And they've intrigued a certain Dr. Walsh... X/C
1. Teaser: The Most Dangerous Game –

**The Most Dangerous Game **–

* * *

The T101L began to get up, slowly and jerkily. It managed to get to about half way, on one knee and about to rise with the other leg, and braced on the spread skeletal fingers of the right hand.

"Target!" Cheng called. "Up!"

"Fire," Xander said, and squeezed the launcher's trigger again. "Steel on target."

The back blast was equally impressive this time, and the round impacted medium low on the right hand side of its torso as it was just rising. It spun to the right, arching backward, and –

_BOOM!_

Cordelia's heavy .416 solid caught it just at the join of spine and skull again, and stretched it out flat.

It didn't twitch this time, at least not immediately.

Picking up the Carl Gustav, Xander headed for the back of the rover at an even trot. He set the recoiless back into the cargo bed, lashed it down, and pulled the webbing over it again, moving quickly and with no wasted motions. Cheng nodded, and headed for the rear door of the Rover.

"Time to go, boys and girls," Cheng said.

"Yup," Xander said, heading around the other side to the drivers door. He paused with a foot on the running board, looking up at her, "Saddle up, oh Queen C. We are _leav_-ing!"

"Hang tight, Bagheera," Cordelia said. "We need to see what it does. Don't want it to lose us now, huh?" She threw him a brilliant grin, and a wink.

Xander returned the grin, and slid into the driver's seat, starting up the Land Rover almost immediately. The applause, whistles, cat calls, and cheers from the UCS crowd were loud and raucous. Cordelia blew them all a kiss, and took a slight bow from her perch in the sunroof.

"Ham," Xander called up to her from inside.

"You're just jealous 'cause they don't want _your_ autograph."

"Ah dunno," Cheng said, "I think a couple of those gals are waving their underwear at him."

"Turn your head to look, dork," Cordelia said, "And _you'll_ get a cup check that'll make the_ Larry-bot's_ look like a love tap."

"Aw, gee, honey – I never get to have any fun."

"You don't _get_ to have groupies, lamer," Cordelia said. "_I'm_ the only groupie you're allowed to have."

"Hell, you're the only groupie I _need_."

Terminator Larry finally worked its way up, and then lurched to its feet. It looked at them with the one glowing red eye for a too long moment, and Cordelia gave it an upraised middle finger. After a long moment, it nodded at her, as if in wary salute.

_BOOM!_

Cordelia's final round for this encounter _just_ missed the other glowing red eye, impacting instead on the occipital ridge just outside of the eye socket on the right side. It spun the T101L around to the right, and sent it staggering slightly.

"_Don't_ nod at _me_, you son of a bitch," Cordelia said. "I am_ not _your honorable fucking adversary, asshole. I am your _death_."

* * *

**.**


	2. Prologue: And the Large Birds of Prey -

**The Hell-er-Nator: Book II – **

**Ghosting the Machine**

A Buffy the Vampire Slayer-The Terminator crossover Event.

_by Ironbear_

* * *

** Hell-er-nator ****Book ****2****: ****Ghosting the Machine **– Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase, and ensemble cast (YAHF x-over: The Terminator)

**Story Blurb:** Just because the spell is broken, it _doesn't_ mean that the nightmare is over. Halloween may be ended, but Xander and Cordelia are still on the run – and the Terminator is still hunting. _And_ they've intrigued a certain Dr. Walsh... X/C

**Title:** "Ghosting the Machine"

**Author:** Ironbear

**Rating:** FR-18/PG-13 (to a possible R)

**Disclaimer:** Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series and characters thereof belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox, and Kazui Entertainment. The Terminator, T2, and characters thereof belong to Orion Pictures, TriStar Pictures, Warner Bros, and James Cameron. Everyone else belongs to their respective owners too, except for my original characters, whom I suppose belong mostly to themselves.

This is a work of derivative fiction. All persons, characters, names, places, locations, entities, personages, and/or deities contained within are purely fictional, or fictional representations thereof, and any resemblance to any real persons, characters, names, places, locations, entities, personages, and/or deities are purely coincidental, or they are used in a purely fictional manner.

Don't worry: there will be a full list of credits and disclaimers in the afterword, as needed. There's not nearly as many crossovers in this one that weren't already covered in the initial afterword and disclaimer, though.

Opening title song lyrics are from "If Today Was Your Last Day" by Nickleback. Closing title lyrics are from "Unforgiven II" by Metallica.

**Summary:** Halloween is over now, the chaos is past, and all that's left is to clean up the wreckage and deal with the aftermaths. For Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris, however, while the chaos may be over, the _nightmare_ is only beginning. Ethan Rayne did a little bit _too_ good of a job of crafting his mischief and putting it into effect. You see... Some things didn't change _back_.

**Type:** Action-adventure, sci-fi, romance, military sci-fi, super heroic, and even some horror.

**Chronology:** Post BtVS "Halloween". Takes place immediately following "Chaos Machine".

**Pairings:** Xander/Cordelia, Jesse/Aura, Jonathan/OC.

** Author's Note(s):** Part II of a multi-part part series. Part two covers the climactic events of the first Terminator movie. Kind of. If you squint sideways.

**Warnings!** Proceed at your own risk! Sex, violence, nudity, death... oh my gods, is there death. It's a freaking _Terminator_ crossover. Whattya _expect_ fer crying out loud? Canon characters die. Canon characters get brutalized. Secondary canon characters die. OCs die. NPCs die. Cops die. People die both on _and_ off-screen. _Dead_ people die. There's _violence_: my fight scenes can be a bit visceral at times. There's snark out the wazoo (Geezus Keerist, it has Xander and Cordelia – of _course_ there's snark). There's rampant cuteness. There's kung fu, claw fu, quip fu, vampire fu, and gun fu. There's even express rifle fu. Hell, there is _Land_ Rover fu. There's lame humor, bad humor, gallows humor, soldier's humor, and even inappropriate humor and humor during sex. There's brick jokes. There's 'what happened to the mouse?' jokes. There's harsh language. There's anti-religious humor and snark. There's...

Oh, hell. It's a freaking orgy of violence, gunfire, explosions, sarcasm, bad language, and sex. Abandon all hope of gentility, ye who enter here.

**Cast of Characters (Main):** Xander Harris, Cordelia Chase (as Sarah Connor), Jonathan Levinson, Tor Hauer, Heidi Barrie, Larry Blaisdell, Warren Mears; Detective Paul Stein, Sheila Martini; Aura Breckenridge. Jesse McNally, Joyce Summers, Dawn Summers, Professor Maggie Walsh, Consulting Psychiatrist. Several major OCs.

**Dramatis Personae (Secondary):** Screw it: it has a cast of freaking _dozens_, at least.

* * *

**.**

GHOSTING THE MACHINE:

_All Saint's Day 1997 –_

Halloween is over now, the chaos is past, and all that's left is to clean up the wreckage and deal with the aftermaths. For most people, anyway, including Sunnydale Detective Paul Stein, now Interim _Police Chief _Paul Stein.

For Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris, however, while the chaos may be over, the _nightmare_ is only beginning.

Ethan Rayne did a little bit _too_ good of a job of crafting his mischief and putting it into effect. You see...

Some things didn't change _back_.

Now, alone, wanted by the law, and traumatized by the events and transformations of the night just past, Cordelia and Xander still have a few problems to work out.

Larry Blaisdell just happens to be one of those things.

On the run, stripped of their resources and most of their allies, and pursued by a remorseless, implacable, and seemingly unstoppable killer, Cordelia and Xander are cast into deadly peril with nothing but their own wits and determination to rely on. With limited options, and only the fragmentary memories of a battle hardened soldier from a dystopian future they're determined to prevent, Xander and Cordelia must survive using whatever they can scrounge and cobble together.

Every law enforcement official in California with the possible exception of Paul Stein wants a piece of them.

Dr. Margaret Walsh wants the Terminator, and she'll stop at nothing and use anything or _anyone_ to get her hands on it.

A secret military group wants to stop the Terminator, and they'll use any means at their disposal to do so.

And the Terminator wants Cordelia Chase and Alexander Harris. Dead.

There's only one thing that all of these various entities have overlooked:

Cordelia Chase and Xander Harris are _not_ your typical, average, every day teenagers...

* * *

**.**

**The Hell-er-Nator: Book II – **

**Ghosting the Machine**

* * *

"_Anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap – life is expensive.__"_ – Rules for a Gunfight (Anonymous)

* * *

**Prologue: And the Large Birds of Prey, They Have Carried Us Away – **

_Friday, December 13, 2019; Heart Island, Upstate New York, Thousand Islands Region; Evening 5:20pm -_

Dust drifted down from the ceiling as the latest crash practically caused the entire building to jump on its foundations. Or maybe it just felt like that... Boldt Castle was far too massive to do that from anything less than a direct hit.

And a direct hit from a 270mm rocket howitzer would have done more than just shake down bits of rock and plaster dust.

Technical Corporal Dwayne Hicks, Tech-Comm, unfroze as the echoes of the impact crash faded away. But damn that had been close. Every impact was closer, it seemed. Wouldn't be long now...

Luckily, there wasn't a good close vantage point. Luckily, Michaela's Manglers, Tech-Comm's answer to the enemy's aerial Hunter Killer robots and aerial spotter drones, were managing to keep MALCOLM's forces from getting a decent spotter in anywhere where they could direct fire accurately. Luckily, the Spectre gunships, V-22 Raptor gunbirds, and A10 Warthogs of the Manglers were managing to keep CAIN's ground forces from _wanting_ to get too close. Luckily -

Screw it. _Luckily_ was going to be running out soon.

Before long, the Mangler's Super Comanches, Super Cobras, and various other aircraft were going to go bingo fuel and have to withdraw. What was left of them after the too long heavy assault, anyway. And then spotter 'borgs would move into position, and the surviving rocket propelled artillery of MALCOLM and CAIN's forces would begin to pound this place and Heart Island to rubble. Along with everything and everyone on it...

The B-52 Specials, Harriers, and F-111 Phoenix bombers of Stryker Wing, Tech-Comm's too small air force had done a fantastic job of eliminating the bulk of the enemy's artillery, but not all of it. Losses from anti-aircraft fire and HK Seekers had taken too heavy a toll on them, though, and Tech-Comm Command wasn't going to risk the remainder on another strike mission.

Not even for the leaders of the North American Resistance Command. Not even for Marshall and General Cordelia Chase, and Tech-Commander Xander Harris.

And, crap. Another, closer hit did an airburst number that shook down more dust and plaster bits, and even rock chips from the ceiling this time. Hicks winced as he frantically continued to shove papers, disks, hand-held comps, pad computers, printouts, and anything else he could grab from the remaining Command Room files into his dispatch bag and half-pack. He had to finish clearing this room, _had_ to. While nothing seriously critical was probably left in here, couldn't be, by now, there were still details that could be gleaned from even the most innocuous looking paperwork and marks on maps and charts.

Details that could kill them, or someone else down the line. MALCOLM had seriously good intelligence analyst routines, and seriously skilled analysts among his staff of human Quislings.

And details that could be useful to Command as well, details gleaned from operations over the four months that this forward Reconnaissance and Command Base had been in operation.

Hicks' partner, Technical Specialist Elston Geiger, had already filled up with a load and hustled it off and down. Hicks was the straggler, as usual. First in, last out...

"All right, Tech-Corporal. Finish it _up_ and pack it _away_," Command Sergeant Benjy Sheridan of the Irregulars said, sticking her head into the command room's doorway. "Time to _go_, we are _leav_-ing."

"We found a way out?" Hicks glanced up at her while grabbing a last handful of SD-Microdisks from a drawer and shoving them into a pocket on the half-pack.

"Heh." Benjy snorted, her eyes narrowing. "Dream on. _Mean__t_ to down below, before something finds the range and dumps the roof of this place on our heads."

"Ah. Right," Hicks said, nodding. He scooped the very last handful of SD disks into the side pocket, and snapped and buckled it closed over them, throwing a quick fast glance around to make sure he hadn't missed anything valuable or useful. No. Done and good. Or at least as good as it could be done.

"Done," Hicks said, nodding.

"Good, and good to go."

The Command Sergeant readied a demo charge as Hicks slung the strap of the dispatch bag cross body, and hoisted the half-pack to sling it onto his left shoulder next to his own field pack, opposite his Steyr Scout. Bending at the knees, he scooped up his M41-A1 and ammo bandolier, heading for the doors.

The toe of his boot hit a book as he moved out, sending it skittering to impact on the corner of a desk, bounce, and fall partially open. Fiction, not military stuff, and he'd ignored it as had whoever had started the project of clearing the Command Room. A copy of Kipling's Jungle Book II, he saw from the cover... and he noticed now that a pair of small, colored rectangles had bounced out from inside the flyleaf as it hit the desk. Some personal memento, probably, ignored or forgotten in the hustle and bustle of clearing the room.

Bending at the knees again, he scooped them off the floor as he went by, barely breaking stride. Not important, really, but possibly someone would want them...

"Come _on_, Corporal," Benjy said, those large gray eyes almost luminous in the dim lighting. "_Time_ to _go_."

"Moving it, Command Sergeant," Hicks assured her, hitting the door at a near run. "And, I am _gone_." Without a thought or a wasted motion, he slid the two card stock rectangles into the forward cargo pocket of his fatigue blacks and the book into his uniform blouse front.

"Good enough."

Shaking her head, Benjy sighed, twisted the charging dial on the preset timed detonator, and slung the demo charge into the room behind them as they left. The charge would wreck and ruin any and all remaining computer and electric equipment, and blast white phosphorus and burning thermite all over the interior of the room. Which would _then_ slag anything left behind, inflammable or not.

Nothing even remotely useful would remain, no matter how good your battlefield forensics.

Another impact blast went off as they sprinted down the corridor toward the stairs leading down, a ground strike this time, somewhere outside. Hicks stumbled slightly, recovered, and pounded after the five foot two inch Command Sergeant.

They passed a group of Explosive Demolitions Specialists as they headed around, the specialists finishing the job of wiring the upper castle for implosion.

"Wrap it up and go, people. Move it move it _move_ it!" Benjy yelled, slowing briefly as they went by. "Time to hit the cellars before they drop this rock in on us themselves."

"Almost done, Command Sergeant," one of the specialists assured her, her focus and concentration laser tight on what her hands were doing. As well it might be: a slip wiring _these_ charges wouldn't just leave her missing a hand or fingers.

"Good. Don't hurry," Benjy said, pausing, "But _do_ make all haste."

Two of the specialists grinned at her as she spun to head off again. They _fully_ understood the seeming contradictory statement.

Don't get rushed and clumsy, but don't dawdle either. All deliberate speed. The _sand_ is running _out_.

Both of them dropped to a low crouching run as they passed a line of outer windows. Not likely that MALCOLM's forces would have any snipers anywhere near a line of sight within range of these, but ingrained reflex and training wasn't broken by knowledge like that.

There was a subtle change to the engine and rotor sounds of the Comanches, V-22s, and Cobras, and a lessening of the fire out in the distance.

"Well, crap," Benjy said, pausing and popping her head up just high enough to clear her eyes over the sill. "That's torn it."

Indeed it had. Even as Hicks dropped to one knee past the Command Sergeant, lifting his own eyes to just past sill level, the fire from the Spectres and Raptors ceased, and their engine drone changed in pitch and direction. Moments later, the A-10s broke off as well. In a few minutes, after continuing to pour in fire to cover the withdrawal of the fixed wings and tilt rotors, the helicopter gunships would pull out as well.

As they watched, the gunships did just that thing, a quartet of Stingers flashing out to take down a flight of HK drones as they banked and dropped to terrain following altitude to make their run home to the nearest refueling and rearming base.

Much farther off, an explosion lit the early darkness followed by a massive fireworks display of rounds cooking off and rockets shooting upwards and out prior to low detonations. It was followed by another, another, and then again. A couple of miles or so farther away, another string of detonations and cooking off munitions lit the gloom. Then another, a trio of miles from _that_.

"Good to go, kids," Command Sergeant Benjy said, her voice tinged with feral satisfaction. "_Nicely_ done. Take an attaboy outta petty cash."

A last pair of 270mm rounds screamed in, rattling the building; followed by silence.

Ayup. The satisfaction was justified. The First and Second Scouts of the Sunnydale Irregulars, and the four teams of Hells-Gate One and Two, had managed to get in and take out the remaining rocket howitzers.

No more artillery pounding. MALCOLM and CAIN's forces would have to come in by aerial vertol and take Boldt Castle down the hard way, by force of arms.

And _that_ was gonna be _costly_.

It was just a damned shame that MALCOLM could replace his forces faster than the Resistance could theirs...

"Good. Now get the heck outta there... "

The little Command Sergeant shook her head, the gray eyes growing remote. No point in the First Scouts or HG-1 coming back to here. Best that they followed plan and bugged out to the transit base and halfway point. Always assuming that they'd survived their expedition.

The Irregulars and the Hells-Gate Teams didn't _lose_, not _ever_. But they could and did _die_ on occasion. And they _weren't_ replaceable.

"Let's go."

Nodding, Hicks led the way deeper in and to the stairs leading to the lower levels.

* * *

It was purely amazing, Hicks would think later, just how _fast_ you could go from being _bait_ in a trap to rats in one. At the time, though, when it all broke sideways on them all he could think was, "Oh, crap."

It did pretty well sum things up though, in lieu of stronger language.

"They've broken through at Wellsley," Captain Franks of Carmichael Company said, bursting into the interim command post. Carmichael wasn't with the rest of the company as they streamed in, and wouldn't be. She hadn't been with them since her death in the Battle of Des Moines...

And oh, damn, this was bad. Bad was a massively inadequate word for it...

The Boldt Yacht House at nearby Wellsley Island was the one weak point in their defenses now that they had the upper floors of Boldt Castle wired to blow.

"How?" Faith snapped, glaring as armed troopers assisted wounded ones through the tunnel exit from Wellsley and past the command post to the makeshift infirmary. "The charges?"

"Didn't blow, ma'am," Franks said. "No idea why. They landed with a trio of those massive vertols they like, and swarmed us. Heavy stuff: Manglers, Gnashers, Combat 'Droids, and T-70s, with T-850s leading them."

"More vertols on the way," Master Sergeant Shackley, Franks' Top Sergeant said. She had a seared patch on one cheek from a near plasma strike or splatter, and a wet and bloody patch on one sleeve. "We held until they made the gate, and made 'em as cautious as possible."

"Yeah." Franks shook his head, and swore angrily. "They led the way with practically a tank battalion's worth of those damned Scorp crawlers. Before we knew what was up, they were crawling up out of the water and heading in."

"Damn," Faith said, angrily shoving her hair back away from her face with both hands.

And damn was right. Only a demonic mind like MALCOLM's could come up with those things. Like something out of the Quake games that Hicks barely remembered playing before the Long Night, Scorps were a bizarre amalgamation of human, demon, and Terminator melded together and mounted onto a robotic scorpion like body. With a 7.62mm gatling mounted in the end of the tail in place of a stinger, and edged, serrated claws.

The turret and wall mounted thirty-five and twenty-five millimeter autocannons would have chewed them to pieces, but they would have tied up the guns long enough for the vertols to sweep in and dump shock troops and Terminators...

"We laser mined the tunnel on our way back," Franks' Lieutenant, Morrisey said while dabbing at a bloody slice on one temple with a wad of gauze. "Slow 'em down and we'll get some warning."

Hicks met Benjy's eyes and nodded grimly. To cyborgs and robots who saw mainly in infrared unless they re-calibrated for other spectra, the ultraviolet laser triggers on the shaped charge mines were virtually invisible until broken. As were the limpet backed mines once they were set into their wall recesses.

The demo crews here at Boldt had set those as the last line trigger in the upper stairwell leading down, the last step before they'd pulled back to the lower levels.

"Fuck," one of the comm techs said, scowling at the readouts on her board. "Bad news just went FUGAZI, Field Marshall. Something must've nailed the repeaters, or fried the dish. No outside comms."

Cordelia Chase-Harris and Xander Harris-Chase exchanged grim looks, and then Cordelia turned her head to look at Franks. "How long, Captain?"

Franks shrugged. "Depends on how long it takes them to get past the sentry guns, ma'am," he said. "We have a little time, but none to dawdle with."

"Dammit," Cordelia said, sighing. "If it's not one thing, it's its mother."

Not much time. They had been counting on the demolition charges planted in the Yacht House to turn it into a death trap for CAIN's shock troops. The automatic sentry weapons and the Panzerfaust anti-armor defenses wouldn't hold them for long at all.

They'd been counting on the collapse of the Yacht House to block easy entry and being able to hold out for the two scheduled pickups at Oh Twenty-one Hundred and Oh Twenty-three Thirty. And with the repeater fried and commo down, there was zero way to call for an emergency bailout...

Besides which, with Dawn Summers with Merrill's Marauders and Ricardo's Roughnecks in the assault on MALCOLM's bio-warfare facility in CDC Atlanta, and Eliza Ryan aka Magick was with Marco's Maulers and Corson's Commando and Third Battalion in the assault on CAIN's stronghold in Downbelow Chicago, no one was giving them an emergency bailout anyway. Und _scheiss_, as Hick's granddad would have said.

Major Reeves exchanged quick flashes of grin with Cordelia and said, "SSND, all right." Shame shit, new day.

Xander snickered at that, and glanced over at Joel Garrity. "Can you open a Way?"

Joel Dresden Garrity exchanged glances with Shelia Martini, and shrugged, managing to look simultaneously grim and dubious. "Yeah. There's a passage that'll open from the Powerhouse into the Never After. Long haul to Boulder, then a hike, and then a shorter hop to Vandenberg. But in this region? The place it opens up on is _seriously_ dangerous. _And_ low tech."

Faith let out a mirthless laugh, shaking her head. "_Dangerous_ just became a relative thing, Joel," she said. "Best get 'er done." Leaning over from the waist, she snagged her heavy rifle from its lean against a cabinet, and began checking it over. "Wild Bunch, Brigands, and... Torrance Platoon. You're with me."

Cordelia nodded and picked up her express rifle, opening the bolt to check the load. Slinging it, she did the same with her battle rifle as Xander began copying her actions.

Faith paused, staring at them incredulously. "The _fuck_ you two think you're doing?"

Cordelia's hands paused in their sure, methodical motions as she stared at the Slayer. "Duh. Going with you to hold the tunnel barricade."

"The _fuck_ you are!"

"The fuck we're not, Faith," Xander said, his voice mild. He didn't glance up from checking over his gear.

"No. You. Are. _Not_." Faith's tone of voice held a finality that almost no one _else_ in the Resistance would have dared use on either of those two. "And we do _not_ have time to argue," she said, her eyes narrowing.

"Then quit arguing," Cordelia said, her voice as mild as Xander's. Finishing her weapons check, she battle slung the heavy automatic rifle and stepped over to an ordnance rack, reaching for a Carl Gustav.

"We are _not_ putting the General and Commander of the entire fucking _Resistance_ on the combat line here," Faith said, her voice lowering and going dangerously soft.

"She's right, Chase," Major Michaela Reeves said, her voice equally soft.

"Dammit, Michaela," Cordelia snapped, her eyes flashing at the other woman, "I am getting _tired_ of having other people die to protect me."

"Well, gee," Faith said, "Best get used to it, Field Marshall and General of the fucking Army, ma'am."

"Faith, it's not like we're irreplaceable now," Xander said, reasonably. "Morgan can – "

"In a few years, maybe," Faith said, cutting him off. "Not now. And he's _not_ gonna have to find out."

And, oh, crap, Hicks thought.

Caught leaning was the term. Although it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. Neither Cordelia's nor Xander Harris' near supernatural speed was quite up to matching that of a full blown Slayer. Hell, even Kendra wasn't as fast as Faith...

Faith's hand flashed down to her thigh holster and the arcing blue nimbus of a stun bolt from her DL-50 blaster was coruscating about both of them before anyone else really had time to blink, practically. The two blasts had sounded nearly as one, even with her targets separated by almost seven yards.

Kendra swore in French as she lunged forward to catch the slumping Cordelia, and Major Reeves grunted under Xander's mass as she broke his fall.

"Get 'em outta here, Joel," Faith said, carefully eying the room. Assaulting the leaders of Tech-comm, even with valid reason and even with a stun bolt, was an iffy proposition... "That's an order."

"You know," Garrity said, mildly, "It occurs to me that I'm really not in the military."

"Gonna give me a problem too, Joel?" Faith said, her eyebrows rising.

"Naw," Garrity said, a lopsided smile sliding across his lips. "Just thought I'd point that out."

"Occurs to me that I am," Major Reeves said, handing off Harris to a pair of troopers, and picking up his battle rifle and .500 Jeffery.

"Good for you, Mickey," Faith said, nodding. "You can cashier me if Cordy doesn't stick my head on a pike first. Assuming I make it out of here, which I won't."

Holstering the DL-50, she crossed over to the weapons rack Cordelia had been standing by, hefting the recoilless that the Field Marshall had been reaching for when she'd been stunned. Faith handed it off to one of her Wild Bunch Slayers as Kendra hoisted the unconscious Cordelia over one shoulder.

"True," Kendra said, "Which is why I should be de one to do dis ting. I am not de head of de Line."

"Someone else is gonna have to anchor the Slayer Line, Ken, for whatever it matters," Faith said, looking the Caribbean Slayer in the eye. "Besides, you got to lead the withdrawal from Cleveland and hold the gap at Des Moines. My turn now."

"Faith... " Joel Garrity said, and Hicks wondered again about the rumors that he and Faith had acquired an off again, on again thing after Charles Gunn's death in Seattle three years ago. Faith removed all wondering by taking four long strides over to him, taking his face between both hands, and giving him a searingly long, hot scorcher of a kiss.

"Catch you on the flip side, Joel," Faith said, stepping back.

"I'll open a way back after," Garrity said, nodding.

"No point."

"Damn it, Faith... "

Hicks had to turn his head away. The moment was too intense, and too private.

"Hey, I'm overdue, Garrity," Faith said, quietly. "I should have bought it when I took that header into the back of that truck. Or in L.A. later. Borrowed time ever since."

"Yeah. What should I tell Kyle?"

"Tell him... " Faith hesitated for a moment, then her chin came up. "Tell him he already knows everything there is to say if he thinks about it. Hell, make up something cool sounding."

"Right." Gripping his staff so tight the rune carved ironwood creaked, Garrity nodded. "Remember Rule One."

"No one here gets out alive, Joel," Faith said. "See you at Fiddler's Green. Now get the hell _out_ of here." There was a rumbling underground blast and everyone flinched or jumped as dust shivered down from the ceiling. Everyone _except_ for the two of them.

She and Kendra locked eyes again for a long moment, and then Faith was spinning on a heel and striding for the passage leading to the between islands tunnel.

"Come on," Kendra said. "You are going to have to open de Way and hold until everyone is through, no matter what."

"Everyone that's coming, anyway," Joel said, nodding. Hefting his staff in his left hand, he turned and followed after the cappuccino skinned Slayer.

"Irregulars! Let's move 'em out," Command Sergeant Benjy Sheridan called, turning to follow. "Firearms slung, blades out. We are _leav_-ing."

"You heard the brass, people. Let's move it," Commander Hardesty said. Letting his battle rifle and M41 depend from their battle slings, he reached back for the grip of the tactical sword over his back. "Tech-Corporal. You have drag. We're last out, the Irregulars are leading."

"Sir," Hicks said, nodding. He checked his own combat blade, not drawing it yet.

Hicks couldn't help one last long look back in the direction that Lieutenant Colonel Lehane and her people had taken...

* * *

They'd been using Boldt Castle as a forward command HQ for long enough to have made some changes, and some defensive preparations.

Too long, probably. Long enough for MALCOLM to deduce, or for CAIN to divine, that they were working out of there. Or else some 950i had followed a patrol team back, seen the camouflaged modifications, and the activity, and reported back.

Faith was certain that they hadn't seen and noticed that the Resistance Command Team was based out of here when not operating from Pylea. MALCOLM would just have dropped one of his dwindling supplied of nukes on the place, not bothered with an all out assault that might fail.

He wanted the Resistance Command _that_ badly. He wanted Cordelia and Xander _dead_, no matter the means. They scared him _that_ much.

Faith grinned as she reached the reinforced concrete barricade across the castle end of the tunnel. The fact that the two of them had survived and destroyed not one, but _three_ Terminators sent into the past to assassinate them, survived the battle of the Cleveland Hellmouth, Des Moines, and everything else... Their apparent invulnerability and apparently preternatural luck combined with Cordelia's inexplicable (to MALCOLM) ability to be two places at once had managed to instil a supernatural dread in the demonic A.I..

Dropping to her knees behind the waist high raised section of wall blocking the center of the tunnel, Faith felt and heard more than saw the rest of her teams hitting the other areas of the barricade. Carl Gustav and SMAW muzzles slid out through firing slits along with rifle and automatic grenade launcher barrels. Barretts lined up with other .50 caliber weapons.

They'd beat the rush here. Just barely, probably.

"Thanks so much for volunteering us, Boss," Rachel Weyland drawled, the North Texas coming through as it always did under stress.

"You would have said no?" Kori Ishikawa, leader of the Wild Bunch and Faith's second in command said. The amusement in her voice almost masked the seriousness underlying the question.

"Well, no," Rachel admitted. "But a gal likes to be asked."

"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I order you guys on a suicide run," Faith said, nodding.

"Hey, see now, it's this whole suicide run thing that's got me confused," one of Becca's Brigands called over. Faith couldn't see which from her position, and didn't recognize the voice. "Mind explaining again how that works out so that we survive to _have_ a next time?"

"Ah." Placing tongue firmly in cheek, Faith said, lightly, "Well, that's just dead simple. We don't."

"Oh." (beat) "Well now, that just clears that _right_ the fuck up. Thanks."

A ripple of laughter ran up and down the line, everyone venting nervous tension. Faith could hear a few of the troops, and a few of her girls here and there, murmuring prayers or chanting over small icons and amulets.

Not her. She gave up on beseeching the fucking gods a long time ago, even before Gunn's death. Her last ritual was simple: she slapped at a spot on her chest over her heart, making sure that the vitals monitor was still in place under her flex combat armor. Not _too_ hard. Would suck to have slayer strength crush the little sensor. Just hard enough...

An explosion sounded down tunnel as something set off another laser mine, and then after awhile, another.

Each was accompanied by a long drawn out pause as the various shock troops cleared bodies and rubble out of the way so the could continue their advance. Until the next one. Rinse, wash, repeat.

A delaying tactic only. MALCOLM didn't care how many hybrid cyborgs or combat bots got blown up or otherwise destroyed for every yard of ground they made. Terminators were a bit scarcer and a bit more expensive, but even they were replaceable. The only ones that the Big Bad seemed to hoard were the 950i Infiltrators, and _that_ was just because they were so slow and difficult to create.

Then several blasts went off in reasonably quick succession, and Faith scowled. Aw, crap, something was screwed. There was just enough delay between the blasts to allow for transit time between mines...

And then the first of the hybrid shock troops was coming around the slight bend in the tunnel ahead of them, a hundred yards away, and there wasn't any time left for pondering what.

Faith dearly hoped that Garrity was gonna have enough damned time to open that Way and finish hustling everyone through before it all went sideways on them.

Well, further sideways.

Then the heavy rifle was slamming against her shoulder, a hard even push, and once more and again. Three hybrids, a Mauler, a Crusher, and then a thank gods she recognized it fast enough to track over Erinye were falling as the heavy projectiles slammed into and through them. Faith was vaguely aware of other heavy weapons and small arms crashing around and beside her...

And then a deep throated BLAM as everything lit up down that way. Apparently, one of her rounds had gotten the Erinye's power cell.

That bought them a brief, scant pause as the bad guys had to clear things under fire, and move up fresh troops to replace the ones destroyed by the power cell's detonation. It hadn't brought down the roof and collapsed the tunnel, more's the pity.

Oh, wait. Maybe not... it _might_ have collapsed far enough back to crack the tunnel ceiling where it ran under the lake. And that would surely suck: tens of thousands of gallons of in-rushing water wouldn't be as brutal a death as cyborgs and Terminators, but it would be just as fast and just as final.

And it would possibly rush and flood under pressure all the way back and up, and into the Way that was allowing everyone else to escape. Making the whole last run thing here kind of pointless...

Taking advantage of the brief lull, Faith swapped magazines in the heavy rifle. Her version of the 'medicine gun' concept.

Her take on the express rifle that Cordelia, Xander, and several others favored as a Terminator stomper. It had started out life at one point as a Beretta R1 semi automatic. Then the CAD designers and the machinists of the Resistance had gotten hold of the design, scaled it up, beefed it up, and machined it out of tough titanium chrome-moly steel alloy, and mated it to a synthetic stock and a long barrel chambered in .577 T-Rex.

Seven hundred and fifty grains of solid penetrator slug at twenty-five hundred feet per second. Over ten thousand foot pounds of energy.

The original Monolithic solid was redesigned also and replaced with a steel jacketed semi-pointed bullet capped with a tungsten armor piercing tip, and swaged around a depleted uranium core. It made Cordelia's four twenty-five and Xander's five hundred deadly against an armored combat chassis, and it made the T-Rex absolutely _lethal _to anything that wasn't armored like a light tank. Add in the ability to fire HESH rounds – high explosive squash head penetrators – and it might even mess up a light armored personnel carrier something fierce.

Kicked like hell, but the twenty-two pound rifle, the huge muzzle brake, and the hydraulic recoil compensator built into the stock dropped the kick from two hundred and twenty pounds into the shoulder to a reasonably light ninety-five pounds.

No matter. Faith wasn't the least bit recoil shy, and the muzzle brake dropped the muzzle climb and torque to a level that allowed for rapid follow up shots. _For her _anyway... even a lot of other _slayers_ couldn't handle the big rifle.

They broke the next wave, the rush after, and the next one after that. Following which came a relatively longer pause.

The wave after that was larger and comprised mostly of cyborg hybrids of various types, with a few T-70s thrown in for seasoning, and it lasted a lot longer. Wreckage and body parts piled up knee deep in the tunnel beyond the barricade, and foul smelling ichor trickled sluggishly across the flooring.

Faith was conscious only of the incessant pounding _thump_ of the heavy rifle butt against her shoulder, rocking her back, and the need to reacquire the sight picture time and time again as the muzzle tracked over and back. She was vaguely aware of the sharp exclamation from one of the Torrance Platoon gunners as a barrel overheated to nearly the cook-off point, and their muttered cursing as the crew struggled to change it and get back into action.

An explosive warhead from an Erinye that someone missed made it through, and there was a crunching detonation as a payload rifle and crew went up, along with the screaming muffled cracks of the ammo supply cooking off. The entire line to that end of the wall collapsed amid the sounds of agonized groans and a Wild Bunch slayer's hoarse shouts for medics...

And then the rifle thudded against her shoulder one last time, turning the top half of a Mangler into scrap and bloody ruin, and when the sights realigned and tracked down again -

There was nothing left to shoot at.

Nothing living, at least, and nothing that didn't live that moved.

Faith leaned back, propping herself up on her rifle butt and breathing harshly. Rachel seemed to have things in hand with medics and the wounded and dead around the detonated Barrett, and Faith didn't bother with shouting orders or getting in the way.

Just... regrouping and recovering a bit.

"Quiet out there," Kori said, after a long silent time had passed.

"Too quiet," someone else gave the age old reply. "They're planning something."

"Well, _duh_," someone else said, and laughter rippled along the lines again.

And oh holy crap they were.

Faith couldn't believe it at first. Couldn't believe they'd _actually_ managed to get it into the tunnel. They must have blasted a hole up above big enough to lower the damned thing in by freaking winch.

A fucking _Destroyer_.

There was a long moment of shocked silence, and then someone said in a dramatically hushed voice: "They have a cave troll," and a small ripple of nervous laughter sounded as the movie quote almost broke the tension.

Almost.

For the most part, the Resistance was lucky that MALCOLM had never been able to duplicate the shields that had made the original ADAM such a tough nut to crack, and his siblings ADAM II and CAIN. They never had been able to figure out whether that was because the shields were partially mystical – which they were – or because they were a function of the demon that had been used in ADAM and his cohorts makeup and those were rare or something. Or something else... Either way, it was a blessing for anyone who had to fight the lesser demonic-human-robotic hybrids.

Not so here. Ogres and Destroyers had the energy and kinetic shields in addition to their armor. In spades.

Take the upper torso of what was basically a nine foot tall demonic humanoid. Give it cybernetic reinforcement and a titanium alloy and armored combat under chassis and power source like a Terminator had. Give it a secondary and tertiary positronic brain in the head and armored chest like a T-850 or T-888. Then discard the legs as useless, and mount the whole thing onto an eight wheeled armored scout car chassis and put the main brain down inside of _that_.

Now give it a heavy duty plasma rifle, MALCOLM's answer to the express rifles, a fifty caliber gatling, an automatic grenade launcher, a rocket launcher, and a light energy cannon in a small turret on the wheeled body.

Oh, and don't forget the shields...

A dedicated infantry killer. Big as life, and six times as ugly.

Powerful and heavily armed enough to blow straight through the thick, armored, and reinforced ferroconcrete wall blocking the tunnel off, and kill everything on the other side of it.

Well, damn. They were surely fucked.

Everything on Faith's side of the wall from the Carl Gustav recoilless to the 25mm payload rifles opened up on the thing all at once.

It didn't help.

* * *

It wasn't a sharp shock and jump like a major earthquake. It was more a gradual rippling heave like four people at the corners of a king size quilt snapping it to trampoline toss a small child in the center.

The sharp shock and jump came a bit later, just after everyone had adjusted to the ripple and shift in what passed for reality in this place.

Patterns and borders swirled, not around them, but back in the direction from which they'd come, and outward from there. Places and not-places swapped around, the edges of reality flowed and swirled, pathways diverted and entire realms took on new configurations.

The Way they traveled never _quite_ collapsed around them, but it wavered several times and was close. Joel Garrity kept a firm grip on his rune carved staff, and a sharp and wary eye on the stuff of faerie and the Never After through which they passed. Just in case...

"Well, crap," a female voice said, and Garrity became aware that Command Sergeant Sheridan had moved up between them, looking back, when Shelia shifted over slightly to let her step in.

"Yeah. 'Bout sums it up, don't it?" Shelia said, nodding.

From the prominence on which they stood, looking down and back, they could all see the stuff of the Never After swirling now, reconfiguring itself into newer and darker forms.

It had been this way, Joel figured, on the day of the Long Night when nuclear fire had rained down on Manhattan, Buffalo, Jersey City, Atlantic City, and D.C.. When all of the stuff of Faerie and the Never After had swirled and become tainted and darker in this area, all over the Tri-state region and outwards.

It was why he had cautioned against opening a Way from Boldt Castle; had warned that it led into deadly places. A nuclear blast couldn't cross over into the Never After, or the Ghost Roads, or the Shadowlands. but the effects of one were far reaching and cause ripples and wavers in proportion to the devastation that the fireball, and the shock wave and EMP caused in reality.

The exigencies of combat were why he had agreed to open one anyway. No real choice when the Devil was driving...

No more than there'd been a real choice in Faith electing to stay and hold for as long as they could. No matter how motivated, no matter how dedicated, you just couldn't expect troops to take on a suicide run and hold far, far beyond the bounds of reason and the limits of sanity. Not without someone to stand with and inspire them to do so...

For that, it took a legend...

_Legend_ might be just another word for bullshit and reputation, but sometimes the bullshit was real. Or it could be made to be.

No more than there'd been a real choice in Faith electing to wear the dead man's trigger for the tactical thermonuclear warhead buried in the bowels of Boldt Castle on Heart Island. Someone had to...

"Damn shame we wasted all those explosives mining the upper levels," Michaela Reeves said, coming up on Joel's other side. He glanced at her sharply, sidelong. Michaela's tone was light, but her eyes were dark and haunted...

"Yeah," Joel said, matching her tone. He probably matched the haunted eyes, too, for all he knew. He wasn't about to hunt up a mirror to check. "Just never know when you might need the party favors elsewhere."

"Faith bought us the time," Cordelia's voice said from behind them. "Let's not waste any of it."

Joel turned slightly, looking back over his shoulder. Yup. Those hazel eyes were as frozen as that voice.

"Yeah," he said, completing the turn and beginning to stride off down the Way. "Let's not."

He didn't look back. No point.

Just as there wasn't going to be any point in opening another Way to go back for them, later.

* * *

.


	3. Aftermaths II – One More River to Cross

**The Hell-er-Nator: Book I****I**** –**

**Ghosting the**** Machine**

* * *

"_Not allowed to ask for the day off due to religious purposes, on the basis that the world is going to end, more than once."_ – 213 Things Skippy is no longer allowed to do in the United States Army

* * *

**Chapter ****T****hirty****-****eight****: ****Aftermaths I****I**** – ****One More River ****to Cross****...**

When Ethan Rayne's well planned and thoroughly, painstakingly designed ritual expired at twelve thirteen and thirteen seconds on Saturday morning, November First, 1997, the expiration and cessation created and left behind almost as much chaos as the initial casting had. Possibly more.

All over Sunnydale and Sunnydale County, where ever the costumes and props from Ethan's shop had traveled or been taken to, as long as it was within a certain radius, people and items reverted to what or who they were before the spell. For the most part...

Some did not.

On occasion, people would revert, but their props did not. On others, people did not revert, but remained changelings while their props turned back into toys or replicas.

All over Sunnydale, characters who had gained the ability of flight, for the most part lost it.

Those who were not flying at the time had no serious problems except irritation at not being able to launch again. Those who had happened to be in the air, well... those who were only a few feet or so above the ground mostly survived it unharmed. Those only a bit higher, generally with only minor injuries and bruising. Those who were currently at cruising altitude, or rising –

Found themselves once again subject to the laws of physics and gravity and returning to earth abruptly.

The results were spectacular, albeit a bit messy.

Some lost none of their abilities, including that one, if they possessed it. Some kept only part of, or a few of their abilities.

Some regained their conscious minds, selves, and memories, but their bodies did not revert. Some regained their physical forms, but not their minds and selves...

Some had their costumed personae merge and integrate with their normal minds and selves, forming an entirely new whole, with one or the other as the dominant personae.

On board the Bloodfin and the Windover, some very few pirates regained themselves. Most, probably the vast majority, did not. Those two vessels now sailed in enchanted waters to begin with, deep in the Never After and approaching the Sea of Dreams.

Those on board who did not regain themselves, might never do so.

A number of pixies found themselves at large in the depths of Breaker's Wood. Over the next several days, more pixies, brownies, mushroom fae, sprites, boggles, dryads, nymphs, and dewdrop fay would drift in each night, until eventually a rather sizable colony formed.

Over the course of the next several weeks, Breaker's Wood would gain a reputation for being... haunted.

All over, unreverted cat people, wolf people, werewolves, and other animal and monster types, both large and small... found themselves as they were, and began to hunt for places to lair. And sometimes for food.

There were quite a number of children, teens, and college age students that were never seen again by their families, friends, and acquaintances. At least not in their original forms...

As they had been doing all night since around five thirty, Sunnydale emergency services people and coroner and medical examiner's staff found themselves short handed and working overtime.

The ratio of reversion to permanency, and the degree, amount, and _type_ of reversion, was purely random, naturally. The selection of unreverted changelings from the costumed seemed to be entirely... chaotic.

The Universal Embodiment of Chaos was well pleased with her acolyte.

Posthumously, of course.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: West Central Ave/East Donovan Road, Sunnydale, Morning 3:30am – _

Buffy wandered along quiet Sunnydale streets for a change, lost in thought. Amazing how quickly all of the chaos from earlier had cleared up, and everyone had packed up and gone home or elsewhere...

She was vaguely aware of a car coming along the street behind her, but really didn't register it consciously until it downshifted and then slowed to an almost crawl alongside of her. She glanced over idly and curiously, and then did a double take and a longer look, a slow smile spreading across her lips.

"Hey sailor, need a ride?" Angel smiled over at her from the driver's seat of an old, seriously well maintained looking black convertible.

"Well, hey yourself," Buffy said. "Gee, I dunno. My mom said to never get into cars with strange men."

"Wise woman. I'm pretty strange," Angel said.

"That you are," Buffy said, nodding. She went over as the car came to a complete stop, and leaned over, bracing her hands on the passenger side window sill. "And – Hey! Was that a _joke_? _Two_ of them? You _never_ make jokes."

"What can I say," Angel said, shrugging. "It's been a kind of a weird night so far."

"Oh please. Tell me about it, sheesh!" Buffy said, laughing. "Man, Angel, you don't know the half of it. It got even _stranger_ after I left you guys."

"Oh, I know _enough_, Faye Rae," Angel said, his slight smile getting slightly broader.

Buffy's eyes widened. "You _know_ about that? Wow!"

Nodding, Angel said, "Your mom saw it on the news. She came by the library looking for you or Dawn or anyone who'd seen you, and told us. You were on top of Altimeeras Tower with a giant gorilla. Oh – and the pirates told us that a giant monkey carried you off."

"Oh, gods. My _mom_ saw that? I am _so_ very dead," Buffy said, shaking her head and starting to laugh. "And he wasn't giant when the news chopper flew by. He waved at them even."

Angel laughed softly. "Nice dress," he said.

"Thanks." Buffy straightened and did a pirouette. "Like it?"

"It's pretty," Angel said, nodding.

"Thanks. Even if it is a total mess after all that. And hey, _nice_ car," Buffy said. "I didn't know you had a car. Is it stolen?"

"No no, it's mine," Angel said. "I just don't use it often around here. Sunnydale's not _that_ big. And I like walking."

Buffy nodded, opened the door, and slipped into the passenger seat. "So, I've decided you're not _that_ strange."

"I'll accept that as a compliment," Angel said, putting the car into first and slowly starting off. "So, a Princess Cinderella?"

"Well, Willow and I swiped some of Giles' Watcher Diaries and looked you up," Buffy said, "And decided that it was either: 18th Century fancy Noblewoman, Tavern Wench, or Vampire Prostitute. So I went as Cinderella instead."

"Good choice. I always hated those stuffy, snippy, supercilious vacant Noblewomen of my time," Angel said. "And Darla's not something I like being reminded of." He frowned, and added, "I'm not really proud of a lot of that. I wasn't much of a person before I was turned. Or after."

"Yeah. What was it? A 'drunken, lecherous scallywag, knave, uh, womanizing cad, bounder, and drunken ne'er do well'?" Buffy said, laughing.

"Ouch," Angel said, wincing. "Boy. Some Watcher _really_ didn't like me, did he?"

"It was a her. And no, she didn't sound all that impressed by human you," Buffy said, smiling. "So, what's a bounder? I figured out cad and ne'er do well. Oh, and what's a knave?"

Angel laughed softly, and said, "I'll tell you sometime when you're _not_ about to fall asleep on me." She nodded and he said, "So, what else have you been doing until now?"

"Oh, let's see... Not-quite-yet-a-Princess Cinderella watched a pirate naval battle, and then helped a Wizard, a Witch, a Vampire Girl, and a Giant Gorilla deliver a bunch of kids to Fondren high school and she told them all about the Mighty Warrior Daniel, Swordswoman Kendra, Lady Aura, the Tragic Willow, and the Enchanted Vampire Angel. And they had all kinds of wondrous adventures along the way." Buffy laughed, and shook her head, saying, "And then I came back, staked one of Spike's vamps, and me and Vampire Girl went to an In 'N Out and I ate and we talked the rest of the time about everything under the sun. And then I've spent about an hour walking around looking at all of the damage and marveling at the sudden quiet like."

Angel looked at her and blinked. "Oh-kay... "

"Hey, odd as it sounds, it was actually kind of enjoyable sitting and fraternizing with the enemy and just _talking_ for a change," Buffy said, shaking her head wonderingly. "We had fun, if you'll buy that for a dollar."

"Too too strange. So, did you stake her after?"

"Haven't decided whether to or not, yet," Buffy said. "She has a _very_ temporary reprieve and is out on parole."

"Oh-kay... " Angel said again, shaking his head.

"Hey. Can't stake everyone. You'd be in really deep trouble if I did. And besides, she paid for the six double cheese burgers, three orders of onion rings, large fries, giant coke, and ultra-large chocolate milkshake I ate."

"Ah. Can't have that, then. Generous vampires with deep pockets are rare. That, and I'd really hate being staked." Angel smiled again, and said, "Oh, you'll like this. Kendra and Aura killed Spike. And Aura almost killed Drusilla in a one on one death duel at Sunnydale ER."

Buffy blinked. "Ok. Wow. How'd that happen? And why was Aura at the ER?"

"Sabretooth almost killed Kendra and we had to rush her to emergency, and Aura stayed there to wait for news while Daniel and I left to help Giles try to figure out what was going on," Angel said. He filled her in on the rest, mostly the highlights along with a promise to fill in the details later. It left her shaking her head in wonder, her eyes gone wide.

"Wow. And I thought _I_ had a strange night," Buffy said, as Angel pulled the convertible to the curb in front of her house.

"It had its moments."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Sunnydale PD Headquarters off Main Street__, Sunnydale, Morning 3:45__a__m –_

Dr. Margaret Walsh, aka Maggie Walsh, leaned back at her temporary desk and sighed, relishing the moment to relax and unwind a bit finally. It had gone fast from an interesting diversion and an opportunity – or so she had thought – to observe a pair of truly unique delusional states to something quite _other_. Something extremely _other_, as a matter of fact...

Cordelia Chase and Alexander Harris had proven to _not_ be delusional. Very much _not_ delusional, as a matter of fact.

When the shooting outside of the interview suite had finally died off... truly unfortunate choice of words that, but it fit, the thing wearing the face of that teenager, what was his name, had opened the suite and looked inside.

Ah. Larry Blaisdell, that was it. It was in her handwritten shorthand notes. She hadn't yet had a chance to transcribe her copies of the interview tapes...

The Blaisdell creature had taken so many rounds in various places that it hardly looked human any longer. A third to half its face on the left side was shot away, revealing what appeared to be synthetic muscle tissues and a gleam of blood washed metal skull in places. One eye was missing, revealing a glowing optical sensor of some sort.

The rest of its body, was covered in bullet holes from various projectiles. The long coat, shirt, underlying turtleneck shirt, and pants were practically shredded and awash in blood. Synthetic blood, she wondered?

It hadn't taken it long to discover her in the interview room she'd taken refuge in. It wasn't like there were many places to hide in there.

Apparently, it hadn't been interested in killing unarmed noncombatants. She seriously doubted that it could possibly see her as any kind of a threat.

"Cordelia Chase?" it said, in a heavily accented monotone voice. Fascinating.

"Gone. Left the building, probably," Dr. Walsh had told it. "By now, anyway. Detective Stein let her and Harris go."

It nodded slowly. "Stay here. If you attempt to be a hindrance, you will be terminated."

Oh yeah. No way was she planning on being a hindrance to the thing. Not yet, anyway... Dr. Walsh had nodded.

It left.

As she really _was_ a trained and licensed doctor of psychiatry, and a psychiatric degree _did_ require and entail a knowledge of medicine as well, Dr. Walsh volunteered after that to help with triage and sorting out and assisting the wounded. At least until paramedics and EMTs could be freed up to arrive. It had taken some time, at least for the arrival thereof.

There hadn't been that many wounded.

The Sunnydale Police Department was going to practically have to restaff from the ground up after this.

Oh well, at least someone had managed to get the phone and cellphone service restored, finally. Dr. Maggie Walsh took out her cell phone and dialed a number from memory.

"Noah Baines, please." Walsh paused, listening, and then said, "Yes, I do realize that it is almost four AM. Of course, I would not be making contact at this hour were it not a critical matter."

She waited, listening for another short time, and said, "Yes. I had assumed he would be at his residence at this hour. Tell him to make contact with me at his earliest convenience. I am at an unsecured line, so no, I shall not tell you what it is regarding." Pause while the voice on the other end made meaningless noises. "Yes, thank you."

Closing the phone and slipping it back into her purse, she sat back again. Interesting, definitely.

If this... Terminator... could be rendered inoperable and recovered, or – better yet – captured intact, it would be precisely the boost that the research into Project A.D.A.M. required to become fully operational.

It would be truly wonderful to see her brainchild become reality rather than merely theory, at long last.

Of course, achieving that goal would probably mean fully activating Project Initiative much earlier than planned, rather than the partial phase activation status it was currently in...

Nodding to herself, Dr. Walsh took out her phone again and began dialing another number, once again from memory. The simplest way to achieve the capture of the Terminator would be to locate and stake out the Chase girl and the Harris boy, assuming they survived long enough.

Use them for bait.

It would be nice if they survived the process long enough for Dr. Walsh to begin and finish a new line of interviews with them, in a more controlled environment, of course. But it wouldn't be a requirement.

"Hello?" Dr. Walsh began to speak into the phone to her next contact.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __University__ Parkway, South East Sunnydale, Morning 3:45am – _

"All right, Beverly Teresa Sheridan – " Michelle Sheridan began...

"Uh oh," Jesse intoned. "You're in _trouble_!" Benjy nodded, her eyes going wide.

"Oh, you hush, McNally," Michelle said, snickering. She half turned in her seat so she could face the back seats of the Wrangler. "No, she isn't. But – ground rules, young lady. You are _not_ going to stay up all night pestering Jesse for stories about Iron Fist and his adventures, you hear me?"

"Yup. Plenty of time to do that all day tomorrow after a full eight hours," Michael Sheridan said.

"Uh oh," Jesse said. "Now _I'm_ in trouble." Benjy snickered, elbowing him in the side.

"Mom! She's touching me!"

"All right, settle down you two," Michelle said, laughing.

"Kind of surprised you didn't take your friend Willow up on her offer to stay with her, at least until her parents came back, son," Michael said.

"No, sir," Jesse said, shaking his head. "I'd like to get at least _some_ sleep at some point in the next three days. Will's great, but she'd have glomped onto me like an octopus and babbled my head off all weekend. You saw how she was at the library when she first walked in with that Oz guy and saw me."

"Yeah," Michelle said, laughing. "In all fairness, though, she did have reason. You were dead for a long time."

"Hey, so was she," Jesse said, laughing himself. "All night long, matter of fact. And _I_ didn't glomp onto _her_."

"I'm not sure it's quite the same thing," Michael said. "All, right, Beverly. We want you to know that your mother and I are both proud of you."

"There's a 'but' here, I know it," Benjy said.

"No buts, Bev," Michelle said, shaking her head. "What you and those other kids did was extraordinary."

"Yup." Jesse said, nodding. "You're a hero, kid. Deal with it."

"No. I'm really not. Erin, uh, Gabrielle is a hero. She saved everyone's butts. Seaman Anchor – really need to find out his name – is a hero. He died saving Cap's life. Cadet Wolfe – she charged into something she _knew_ could kill her because she thought she had an idea. And it _did_. But she saved Gwendolyn when it turned on _her_ instead of eating Gwen for doing the same thing. Misty is a hero, seriously. Kitty, Chessie, Devila, Bucky, even Pook. The scouts saved everyone's butts over and over again. Especially mine."

"Everyone but you?" Michael said.

"Well... " Benjy squirmed in her seat. "I made mistakes, Dad. Big ones. I got people killed, and lost. I should have gone straight through after we routed Silver Hair's guys like I planned, instead of back and through the zoo. And shoulda blasted straight through those kiddie monsters and not back and out through the park. Should have taken Pan up on his offer and dealt with the ambush – wouldn't have ended up in the tunnels with that demon. Or held fast and waited it out – the spell woulda ended."

"Oh, Beverly... " Michelle said. Jesse put his arm around Benjy and hugged her, until she shrugged him off irritably.

"But you didn't _know_ that," Jesse said, and Benjy shrugged.

Michael nodded at each comment. "Sounds like you analyzed them and learned from them. Which'll do until next time, when you'll make new ones in different situations. Bev... there isn't a commander in the entire world history of the military who hasn't made mistakes and cost lives or injuries doing it. Not one."

"Even you?"

"Oh, gods yes, Bev," Michael said. "There were times during Tet when I would have _loved_ taking out a platoon and _only_ losing four people. Do _not_ knock your accomplishments, kiddo. The what ifs and if onlies can gut you."

"Yeah. Dad, I lost it a couple of times. I really didn't care if that Hatter kid landed on his head and broke his neck, or if that forehead shot knocked that Wendy girl cold and she went splat – _or_ if it cracked her skull. Or if those Lost Boys I took out of the air drowned when they went splash," she said. "They kept attacking us, and I got so mad – "

"You could chew nails and spit barbed wire?" Michael suggested.

"No. Just... icy cold, Dad. I coulda splattered that Pan kid's brains all over the grass at the end, if he hadn't stood down, and not been bothered. Just moved on," Benjy said, shuddering. "I really don't _want_ to be a monster, Dad. Heck, look at _Misty_, when she squared off on Mrs. Summers over the weapon thing. Misty wasn't _like_ that before we went out Trick or Treating. She was a ditzy social dweeb who would have shrieked and gone _ick!_ if you'd'a handed her a rifle. Now she's darned near an ice cold killer. She took down that cat girl like an ice cold pro, and didn't blink. And _she_ didn't even _transform_."

"As long as you recognize the capacity, and keep that firmly in mind, you won't, kid," Michael said, firmly. "It sounds to me like they put themselves in that position. And... I'm going to tell you a well kept secret in the profession: it's not the ones we take down defending ourselves and others that gives us PTSD. It's the ones we didn't that went on to kill someone _else_. And the ones we _didn't_ save."

"But they were just kids like us that transformed," she said. "Not really their fault."

"Well, so were you and yours, Bev," Michelle said, gently. "And yet you didn't turn into marauders and brigands. Or put others in a position where they needed to put _you_ down in order to be safe around you."

Benjy nodded. "Doesn't get easier, does it."

"Wish it did," Michael said. "Wish it did."

"Look at it this way, Benjy," Jesse said, "You took out twenty six kids and started back, and got one captured because you got jumped, rattled, and hit something you weren't yet prepared to handle. Then you rallied, picked up more, and _safely_ brought back forty-one out of _forty-four_. That's a serious coup."

"Is that the word from Iron Fist?" Benjy said, the corner of her lips starting to twitch.

"No. But it's what Daniel Rand _would_ have thought and said if he were still here," Jesse said, starting to grin. "Believe me, I _know_."

Benjy nodded, staring out the side window into the Sunnydale night, lost in thought.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Sunnydale PD Headquarters off Main Street__, Sunnydale, Morning 3:45__a__m –_

Detective Paul Stein sighed and shifted his arm uncomfortably in its sling. He thought seriously about attempting to twist off the cap to the bottle of industrial strength painkillers he'd been given – always an interesting process using only one hand – and decided against it.

Too much work to do.

The hospital hadn't wanted to let him leave after he'd had his arm patched up and the two 10mm bullets taken out of him, and the other holes from the ones that had gone straight through cleaned and patched. They _hadn't_ let the CBI Inspector go – practically sitting on him to insist on his cooperation. Lundy was still in intensive care recovery...

Problem was, dead on his feet or not, Paul Stein was probably the most senior Sunnydale Police Official left right now. And that was even counting the ulikely _event_ of Chief Bob Munroe returning from wherever he'd fled to while his station was being destroyed and depopulated. Bastard. And frigging coward. Munroe probably wouldn't be thrilled if he did come back and he found Stein establishing himself as interim commander in Munroe's office and at his desk.

Fuck him sideways. He could take it up with the Mayor.

Fuck the Mayor sideways, too, for that matter.

_If_ Bob Munroe came back in, he'd be fucking lucky if Stein didn't merely pull out his service automatic and shoot him dead, one inch at a time.

Gods. Stein seriously hoped to hell that Cordelia and Harris had made it out and to someplace safe, assuming there _was_ such a place. If Harris managed that trick and _kept_ her alive, Stein was gonna _personally_ dig him out of the legal hole he was in even if Paul had to rent a fucking backhoe from S&C Heavy Equipment on his own nickle.

A throat cleared at his doorway, jerking Stein's head around in that direction. His eyes narrowed.

"Detective Stein?"

The speaker was a tall, slender, dark haired man with blue-gray eyes, wearing bloody and rumpled jeans and a sports jacket. No shirt. There was a slim, somewhat curvy black woman standing next to him wearing an equally disreputable looking gray business suit. The man was probably in his early to mid thirties, and the woman in her mid to late twenties.

"Yeah? Who wants to know?" Stein said, gruffly.

The man nodded, taking precisely one and only one step through the door before stopping at Stein's glare. "Carl Kolchak, L.A. Beacon. This is my associate, reporter Perry White."

"Ah. Pleased to fucking meet you. Now get the fuck out."

The young woman choked, and then started laughing. After a moment, she said, "I really can't blame you for that, Detective Stein."

"Good," Stein said. "Then comply. Vaporize. Go talk to the fucking Assistant Mayor – it'll give him something semi useful to do."

"Sir, we do understand that you're very busy," the reporter, Kolchak, began...

"Good. Then you'll vanish."

"Please, Detective, we'd just like a few moments to speak with you," the woman, Perry White said.

Stein sighed heavily, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. "Look, like I told the Santa Barbara reporters, no fucking comment. Lady, I got dead cops all over being hauled to the morgue as fast as our overloaded coroner services can manage. I got wounded cops filling up at least three trauma wards at various hospitals. What very fucking few effectives we still have are scattered all over trying to put this fucking town back together. A third of our fucking force just walked off the job last night. Quote me on that, if you want. The fucking Mayor can fucking fire me." He paused, sighing again. "You'll understand perfectly when I say that I am busy, and I am in no fucking mood."

"Oh, definitely, sir," Kolchak said, "Look, Detective. We understand, really. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff we've seen tonight – "

"Detective?" the woman cut across him. "Would it help if we said this was strictly off the record? And that we _know_ that tonight, somehow, a large number of people got turned into their Halloween costume personae?"

Stein stared at her. Finally, he grunted, "You do, huh? Do tell." He grinned mirthlessly, and added, "_I'm_ told it was a hallucinogenic gas leak. You're probably affected too."

"Hah." Kolchak said, grinning back with an equal lack of mirth. "We've heard the Mayor's press conference, thanks. Got it on tape."

"We'd offer to show you our tapes, but our cameraman is still busy transmitting them as fast as he fucking can, now that the signals are all back up," Perry said. "You wouldn't believe some of the shit we've got. And that we've seen and been through."

"You'll see most of them on FYI News later, anyway," Kolchak said. "And no, you probably wouldn't believe 'em."

"Oh, gee, Perry, Carl, I think I probably might," Stein said, laughing sourly. "Ok, let's just say for thirty insane seconds that I'm entertaining this concept. What the fuck do you want, exactly?"

"We'll show you ours if you'll show us yours," Kolchak said, and Stein laughed. "Off the record, completely, if that's what you want. Complete across the board trade, nothing barred."

"We just want to know what the hell happened here with you guys tonight," Perry said, "So we can add it to ours and at least get a complete picture – for our own damned sanity, even if we can't use it."

"Hah!" Stein shook his head, thinking furiously. Finally he said, "All right. Grab some space," he waved to his visitor chairs, "And let Daddy Stein tuck you in and tell you a bedtime story, kids. Gauran-fucking-teed to send you off to dreamland with plenty of nightmare fuel. Gotta tellya – sanity ain't nowhere to be found anywhere in this thing."

"Heh." Perry said, "Was gonna warn you about that on our stories."

They grabbed chairs and settled in.

"Coffee?" Stein asked. "Pour me a cup, too, while yer at it. Oh – and I'm pretty sure that Chief Fatso has some damned fine Irish Whiskey in this desk if you're interested in a splash with your coffee. For medicinal purposes only."

"Both would be wonderful, Detective," Kolchak said, getting up and moving to the coffee maker. "Hit us."

Perry gave her associate a fond look, and added, "He'd say: _shoot_, but he's afraid you'd take it literally."

"Here," Stein tossed her the bottle of painkillers, "Make yourself useful, please, and open that fucking bottle for me? I can't manage it with one hand..."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Morning 3:45am – _

Yawning and smiling at the same time, Buffy Summers turned the knob on her front door, and pushed it open. Ah... home, home at last, finally. Jeeze, what a night. She supposed she really should have gone by the library, but –

"Halt! Stand and be recognized, or be run through!" a high pitched, musical, and very small voice piped up from in front of her at around head height.

Buffy blinked, closed and rubbed her eyes, hard, opened them, and blinked again.

There was a tiny seven or so inch little girl in a tiny green dress, surrounded by a bright green glow, levitating in front of her about three feet away, just inside the doorway from the foyer to the living room. No – _not_ levitating, hovering: Buffy could see the blur of tiny wings beating almost invisibly on her back.

And she was holding a pair of three inch bladed rapiers and scowling cutely and ferociously at Buffy.

Now, Buffy Summers wasn't just your normal everyday teenage girl. Once, she had been a vacuous, bitchy, fashion and Dorothy Hamill obsessed cheerleader, sure, but now... She was a _Slayer_, with all that entailed. She'd slain two ancient Master Vampires, numerous demons, and faced down things that would have sent a normal teen girl into catatonia. So, faced with this apparition, she did what any stalwart Slayer would do –

She closed her eyes, turned around to face the door, and solidly smacked her forehead against it once, twice, and then a third time. Then she opened her eyes, rubbed them again, and turned around.

It hadn't helped. The tiny, uh, fairy girl was still there. And now Buffy's forehead hurt.

"I said _halt! _Stand and identify yourself!"

"Uh, hi," Buffy said. "I'm Buffy. Are you my fairy godmother?"

"No!" the little swordswoman brandished her swords with a flourish. "I'm a pixie and a _soldier_, duh! And you are, uh, what are you?"

Sigh. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes and go into a fit of hysterical giggling, Buffy smiled her best, and said, "Like I said, I'm a Buffy, and I live here. Now if you'd just let me past, we can... " she took a step forward to the doorway.

"Ow!" Buffy clapped both hands to her nose. The little, uh, critter had jabbed her in the _nose_ with her _sword_ point and then zipped back, dammit. "Ow! Stop that! MOM! _Why_ do we have a pixie in our living room?"

Hoping desperately for her mom, or Dawn or anyone to show up and explain this, Buffy looked past the tiny sword wielder and froze with her mouth hanging open, blinking stupidly –

There was now three other small figures in the doorway to the little hall leading from the living room to the den and the downstairs half bath, blinking sleepily at her. Two little furry cat girls, one black, one gray and white with jaguar like spots, and a little girl with red gold skin, small horns and a swishing spade tipped –

"Demon!" Buffy yelled, and barreled past the tiny sword girl.

Both cat girls' eyes widened in alarm and they fluffed up like bottle brushes, hissing. The demon girl grinned at her with more teeth than the Osmond family, and took a step forward, her eyes glowing red suddenly. And _Dawn_, her freaking _sister_, hurled herself out of the hallway with a near panicked expression between Buffy and the little trio, throwing her arms out wide to hold them back.

"Buffy! You're scaring them! Stop it!"

Buffy practically broke in half putting on the brakes so fast she thought she might have strained something. She stumbled to a halt in the middle of the living room with the little fairy zipping around her yelling and swiping with its tiny sword.

"Pook! Stand down," Dawn yelled. The little creature zipped over and hovered near Dawn's head, glaring at Buffy. And the little demon girl flat vanished. So did the gray and white cat girl, leaving only a trace of a grin in the air behind her.

About three seconds later, "Hi there!" a voice said nearly in Buffy's ear from _behind_ her.

"BWAH!" Buffy yelled, jumped three feet straight up, and four feet forward, and almost tripped on the coffee table and _then_ nearly brained herself on an end table before she caught her balance.

The gray and white cat girl grinned from behind where Buffy had been standing, and started giggling. "Oh, that just _never_ gets old! She's funny."

Freaking _Dawn_ started to giggle too, and then began laughing. Struggling to put on a straight face and a stern expression, she said, "Chessie! Stop that! You'll give my sister a heart attack. Hey, Buffy, _why_ is your nose bleeding?"

A finger tapped Buffy on the shoulder from behind, and another voice said, "Hey!" in her other ear.

"_BWAH!_" This time, Buffy practically landed on top of the gray cat girl, who scrambled hastily out of the way. Little demon girl grinned toothily at her from by the couch, her red eyes dancing merrily.

Dawn and the black furred cat girl collapsed into helpless laughter, and sat down hard on the floor in the middle of the hall doorway, their arms around each other and going into hysterics. Fairy girl sat down on Dawn's head, giggling madly.

"All right," Joyce Summers said, sticking her head out of the kitchen doorway. "What is going _on_ out here? Oh! Hi, Buffy."

"MOM! There's a _demon_ in our living room! And- and- and... uh... " Buffy trailed off incoherently and just pointed at the two cat girls. "Them!"

"She is _not_ a demon," Dawn said, between bursts of giggles. "She's Private Devila. And, oh gods, Buffy. You should have _seen_ your face!"

"All right, Devila, Chessie," Joyce said, stepping into the dining room archway and glowering at the entire room. "Stop that. And Dawn! _Why_ are you and Kitty sitting on the _floor_?"

"C- can't breathe," cat girl, uh, Kitty gasped out. "Laughing... too... hard."

"Chessie! Reappear this instant!" Joyce said, and the gray cat girl popped up out of thin air standing next to her, purring. Buffy blinked again. "Oh, there you are."

"MOM! There's a _demon_ in our _living_ room!" Buffy said, again. She was starting to think that going back to the door and pounding her head again might be a good option. Was her mom and her sister gone all _nuts_? "Demon!"

"Oh, please, Buffy," Joyce said, scowling at her. "She is _not_ a demon."

The little demon girl nodded enthusiastically and said, "Yes I am!"

"Ok, so she is a demon," Joyce said, rolling her eyes and smiling. "But she's also a little girl."

"What precisely is going on, Mrs. Summers?" Buffy shook her head again... the speaker was one of a new trio, standing in the hall doorway behind the sitting and snickering Dawn and, uh, Kitty. A little eleven year old girl with pointed ears, a dark tan, and wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt.

On either side of her was a blonde girl in pajamas holding a red, white, and blue shield in one hand and knuckling her eye with the other, and a very straight standing dark haired girl wearing a t-shirt and a pair of Dawn's sweat pants.

_All_ of them except for the giggling pixie were wearing her sister's clothes, Buffy now noticed. Even the demon girl. Pajama bottoms and t-shirts, sweats, long sleep tees, and assorted other of Dawn's spare night wear, in various combinations of too large, too long, too short, or too small.

"Mom? What's going on?"

"Gee, Buffy, if you'd stop scaring the kids and yelling, we'd _tell_ you," Dawn said, rolling her eyes.

"_Me_ scare _them? _She- they- uh... there's a pixie sitting on your head! And a _demon!_" Buffy said, spluttering. "That's it! She's a demon and she's enchanted you two! Cinderella knew all about stuff like this!"

The three girls in the doorway looked at each other and then down at Dawn, and the girl with the shield said, "Dawn? Do you know what she's talking about?"

"Perhaps she's gone mad," the dark haired girl said, nodding. "The night's strain may have been too much for the poor thing."

"Ok, hush you three," Joyce said, moving all the way into the living room and folding her arms, "Dawn, Kitty, get up off the floor. Buffy, quit scaring Devila. Chessie. Quit scaring Buffy. Ye gods, why I _ever_ wanted _daughters_ I'll _never_ understand. You all are like children for God's sake."

"Mom, we are children," Dawn said, scrambling up to her feet and putting a hand down for the still laughing and hissing Kitty.

"That's _not_ what you were saying _earlier_, Dawn Marie Summers," Joyce said. "So deal with it."

"Fine," Dawn said, rolling her eyes. "_Use_ my own words against me. _So_ not fair."

"All right, Buffy. No, we are not under an enchantment. These are some of Dawn's new friends who'll be staying with us until we can sort some things out. That's Chessie, Kitty Kat, Stephanie Rogers," Joyce said, pointing at each in turn, "Princess Wicked, Saavik, and Devila. And Pooka Bell the pixie. Devila was a nine year old girl until around five thirty, and now she's a demon. She's really a very sweet girl once you get to know her."

"Was not," Devila said. "And am not."

"Oh, you hush," Joyce said, smiling. "Yes you are."

"Oh-kay... " Buffy closed her eyes and smacked herself in the temple a couple of times with the heel of her hand. Ow. Opening her eyes again, she smiled brightly and said, "Ok. This is a costume thing, right? Got it. I'm on track now."

"That's what we're told, yes," the blonde girl, uh, Stephanie said, nodding. "You must be Dawn's sister. Pleased."

"Well, I'm not certain if I'm _pleased_, exactly," the dark haired girl said, "But I am charmed. And no longer bored."

"Right."

"Buffy," Dawn said, grinning from ear to ear, "Meet the Scouts and part of the Special Ops and Parley Team of the First Sunnydale Irregulars."

"_Right._"

"Dawn? Why is your sister's nose bleeding at the tip?" the pointy eared girl, Saavik asked.

"Because that tiny monster stuck me with a _sword!_" Buffy touched the tip of her nose and checked. Yup. Little drop of blood...

"Hey! I'm not a monster!" the pixie girl said indignantly, standing up on top of Dawn's head. "I'm a pixie!"

Buffy eyed her skeptically and growled, "Have you tried _not_ being a pixie? _I_ know a girl who tried not being a vampire tonight – and it worked for _her_."

"Please, Buffy," Joyce said, doing her best to stifle laughter. "While _you've_ been sitting on top of the standpipe all night with a gorilla waving at news helicopters, your sister has had quite the set of adventures."

Buffy slowly turned bright red from the neckline up. "Uh, you saw that, huh?"

"Oh yes," Joyce said, grinning at her. "And I had quite the talk with your Mr. Giles and Angel."

Oh, God. Her mother talked with Giles? And _Angel?_ She was going to _kill_ Angel. He hadn't _said_ anything about _that_. Yup. Gonna dust him. Shelia could take his place. It'd mean Buffy would have to turn lesbian, but that's a _small_ price to pay for revenge...

"Mom? What did you talk to Giles about?" Buffy said, very slowly.

"Oh, nothing much. By the way, just how long _have_ you been a vampire Slayer?" Joyce said, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at her.

Oh. Crap. "Uh..."

"And really, Buffy, why didn't you tell me?"

"I did!" Buffy said, exasperated and starting to feel seriously beleaguered here. Was beleaguered even a word? "You and Dad put me in an asylum for evaluation, dammit!"

"Don't you talk to me in that tone of voice, Buffy Anne Summers," Joyce said. "And you know perfectly _well_ that was a part of your deal with the judge for you burning down Hemery's _gym_, not for those vampire stories. Now, would you like some hot chocolate?"

Two sets of cat ears pricked up and swiveled forward, and the little pixie stopped giggling and sat up at attention suddenly. Devila's head tracked around like a radar dish and her face took on a hopeful expression.

"If you don't mind, Mrs. Summers, we might like some as well," the Princess girl said. "It would be lovely."

Stephanie nodded. "I don't think we'll be able to go straight to sleep now right away, anyway."

"Well, sure," Joyce said. "I was making enough for me and Dawn, but I'll put on extra. Oh," she paused, "Dawn. Did you ever get Kitty Kat and Chessie baths?"

"Uh, no. We decided to table that for now," Dawn said, looking sheepish. "Actually, _they_ decided, when they mutinied on me."

"Can only mutiny on a _ship_," Kitty Kat said. "Private Admiral Mayhem said so. We disobeyed orders. Is different."

"Dawn's not an officer or noncom," Chessie said. "She can't _give_ orders."

"I give up," Buffy said, throwing up her hands. "Fine. Yup, I'm a vampire Slayer. Been one since Hemery. I kept it to myself out of pure meanness."

Yup. Angel, dead. Giles, tortured and _then_ dead. Then herself. That's it, murder suicide... was dusting a vampire murder even?

"That's _so_ just like you, Buffy," Dawn said, huffing. "Next time, I'm breaking into your diary."

"Don't even start, Dawn, or I'll add you to my murder suicide list," Buffy said, glaring. "Right smack dab in between Angel and Giles. I'll make yours look like suicide. You tragically drowned in a toilet."

"Mom!"

"Buffy, don't threaten your sister," Joyce said, rolling her eyes. "You're not murdering anyone. Now, do you want cocoa or not? And do you want to hear Dawn's adventure and _why_ we have two cat girls, a pixie, and a little demon girl, or not?"

"Hey! I'm not little. I'm Devila sized," the demon girl said, sticking her lower lip out. The effect was ruined by an enormous yawn.

"It's important that you believe that," Pooka said, sticking her tongue out. Devila glared and her tail began to twitch.

Buffy snickered in spite of herself.

"Ok, Dawnie, I'm thinking the story behind _this_ one is gonna be a doozy. Can't wait," Buffy said. "Sure. Cocoa me, mom."

"Hey, guys! The Irregulars are _still_ undefeated!" Dawn said, excitedly. "We took down a Buffy, too!"

"You _so_ did not!" Buffy said, her eyes flashing

The cheer and her freaking _mom_ laughing drowned out her protestation, unfortunately.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Shooter's Hill area__, St. Marin home, Sunnydale, Morning 3:45pm –_

The yawns finally overcame any pretense at serious, or even punch drunk discussion. Gerrald St. Marin glanced up at the clock in the den, and sighed. "All right. Time to end this here. I'll give you a ride back to your car, Jonathan, and you two a ride home if you need one."

"Thank you sir, that would be appreciated," Jonathan said.

Mrs. St. Marin had already begged off and gone to bed. January had already left some time ago, stating that she really had to get back to the band. She'd promised to keep in touch...

"C'mon, hero," Tam said, getting up. "I'll walk you out to the porch while Daddy's making ready to get the car."

"All right," Jonathan said, smiling. He followed her out.

Gerrald St. Marin looked at the former Leia and Han Solo and frowned. "You two are certain that both of you still retain _all_ of the memories of your characters?"

Douglas nodded. "Wish I didn't, really. It's going to be hell knowing about hyperspace and what might be out there and knowing I'll never get back behind the controls of a real FTL vessel again." He sighed as Leia nodded, frowning, and added, "Maybe I'll change up my courses of study and try to become an astronaut. I can at least take piloting lessons, anyway."

"Yeah," Julie said. "Of course, no Jedi skills or abilities, ever, and no possibility of lightsabres... "

"Huh," Mr. St. Marins said, looking thoughtful. "Would that memory base include knowledge of the principles behind the drives and," he waved at the still no longer toy blasters, "Other equipment?"

Douglas and Julie looked at each other, frowning, then shrugged. "Well, Solo wasn't a scientist, or hyperspace theorist, but he was one of the best shade tree space ship mechanics and modifiers around. And he knew a lot about blaster-smithing and alteration, so... yeah. Think so. A lot of the mathematics and programming are beyond me right now, but... "

Julie nodded as well, "Me too. But while Leia wasn't a tech, she had a really good education, including all of the sciences. She knew at least most of the basic theory and a lot of practical application."

"Huh," Gerrald St. Marins said again, thoughtfully. "What plans do you have from here?"

Both teens shrugged. "Finish school, go to college, maybe change our majors around to include a lot more physics and mathematics. Why?" Douglas said.

"Ok. Come see me and we'll talk," Gerrald St. Marins said, "I'm suddenly thinking about starting up a grant foundation for St. Marin's Petrochemical for specialized Advanced Placement Students. And a Specialized Research and Development division."

"Hrmm... " Douglas and Julie slowly started to grin.

"Would any of that R&D be directed to, oh, say... aerospace and maybe FTL principles?" Julie said.

"It was the general idea, yes," Gerrald St. Marins said. "Why? Objections?"

"Oh no sir, definitely not," Douglas said, grinning. "Might be fascinating."

"Good. I can _hire_ theoretical physicists, mathematicians, programmers and engineers," Gerrald St. Marins said. "I might just call up Bert Rutan and see about setting up a meeting between himself and the three of us. If you'd be interested."

Both teens blinked at that one, and Douglas said, "Well... sure."

* * *

"I've decided that you might be worth getting to know after all," Tam said, "Even if you're _not_ Corporal Murphy any more."

Jonathan gulped, swallowing heavily. His mouth suddenly felt way too dry. "Uh, really?" His eyes widened and he had to resist an urge to clap his hand over his mouth in horrified dismay as his voice cracked and squeaked at the end.

"Yes, really," Tam said, grinning at him.

"Umm... does this mean that... " Jonathan said, "You might maybe be interested in going out maybe sometime? If you're not busy or don't have another date or anything of course... I mean... "

"Well, sure," Tam said, cocking her head and looking at him.

"Sure?" Dammit, his voice squeaked again. "You mean, yes?"

"If, of course, you think you can get the car again sometime, like, oh, next weekend?"

"Uh huh!" Jonathan nodded so hard he felt like a bobble-head doll. "I mean, like I said, once I tell my dad I actually met a girl, he'll probably give me the _title_ along with the keys."

Tam laughed. "Cool."

She leaned forward slowly and kissed him, On the lips. A _girl_ actually kissed _him_ on the lips. A _pretty_ girl, even...

Not the boyishly good looking and brave and heroic Audie Murphy, but _him_, short dumpy Jonathan _Levinson_. Him.

He closed his eyes, wanting to savor it as long as possible and hoping desperately he wasn't going to wake up in bed and find out it was all a wet dream. Or maybe a wet _nightmare_, all things considered...

It wasn't. Still here.

Tam broke off the kiss, way too soon. Or maybe not...

At least she broke it before he hyperventilated and passed out. _That _would have been _embarrassing_.

"But, all things considered," she said, grinning at his expression, "I have _no_ idea how you're gonna top _this_ on a second date."

Jonathan started laughing. "Let's just shoot for a nice quiet movie and maybe some dancing next time, huh?"

* * *

.


	4. The Morning Sun is Rising -

**Chapter ****T****hirty****-****nine****: ****Aftermaths I****II**** – ****The Morning Sun is Rising like a Red Rubber Ball**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Sunnydale Zoo Wolf Exhibit__, Sunnydale, Early Morning –_

Sunlight hitting his face woke Blayne Moll, finally. He waved a hand vaguely, trying to brush it away several times. When that didn't work, he finally cracked his eyes open. A moment later, he opened them fully, sitting up with his mouth hanging open.

What the _fuck_? _Where_ the fuck...

Ok. So... why was he lying on some rock slabs and concrete in what looked like a little clearing in an artificial patch of woodlands? In a concrete pit, with an, uh, railing way up there? And... oh, shit. Why was he naked and covered in scratches and only wearing a tattered, filthy, and ripped Sunnydale High Letterman jacket?

Oh, no...

Memories and awareness slowly started to seep back in flashes, like some kind of slide show from Hell.

He remembered feeling cold, and then really weird. And then horrible, awful pain as his joints started to shift, _fast_, and hair sprouted all over him. He remembered seeing – and _hearing_, God – Aura screaming and then a horrific crash and an impact and shattered glass all over...

Oh no. He hoped he hadn't done anything bad to Aura. Cordelia would _kill_ him.

More flashes. Fighting someone in a green and gold outfit. Running... catching scents. Hunting and chasing something, something with long hair that screamed enticingly...

Blood smell, all coppery sharp, and flesh and bones crunching under his teeth.

Oh, gods. He'd turned into freaking Teen Wolf somehow. Only _not_ the good guy Teen Wolf from the TV show, no sir. The tragic, _bad guy_ Teen Wolf from the old Michael Landon movie. He had _killed_ someone. A woman, he thought. No, maybe _several_ someones.

He remembered... ah. He remembered finding the zoo, later, and finding a way through the wall and fence. Following some enticing scents to... he remembered the leap and drop from way up there not even being an obstacle, down here into the...

Huh. He was in the wolf habitat at the Sunnydale Zoo, that's where he was.

He remembered... oh, crap. He remembered fighting with another wolf, a _real_ one, and flesh and fur under his fangs and claws... and a horrible crunching sound. And then...

Crap again. He remembered actually getting laid, finally.

With multiple female wolves...

At least he'd be safe from female preying mantis monsters now.

He had a vague memory of the troop of little kids running by up there, their scents, but it hadn't seemed important at the time. He was, uh, otherwise occupied.

A rippling snarl made him turn around abruptly.

A wolf, a female, his still sensitive nose informed him, was standing in the doorway to the habitat caves. The ragged snarl was coming from her, and she was exposing some seriously impressive teeth behind the pulled back lips. As he scrabbled back, another one joined her, and then another...

_None_ of them looked like they had fond memories of the night before, come now the morning after.

Blayne screamed as the first she wolf moved out of the habitat cave entrance in a fluid, low to the ground rush.

The screaming went on for a time, and then it stopped abruptly.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: 1520 Windsor Street, Sunnydale, Morning – _

Count Savros Hieronymus Blahdivastri, late of Romania, and formerly Freddy Iverson of Sunnydale High School, opened his eyes, and yawned.

The yawn exposed an upper and lower pair of very sharp canines.

He glanced at the heavy velvet cloths covering the windows, and keeping out the morning sunlight. Sunlight didn't actually harm his kind, at least not the very old and powerful of them. But, as Stoker had noted with his account of Vlad Draculea, it did greatly reduce their power and their abilities.

His companion of the night stirred next to him, rolling over and blinking up sleepily.

"Well, good morning," she said. She yawned as well, also displaying some fine dentition.

"Good morning, my dear. Sleep well?"

"Quite, but apparently not nearly long enough," Baroness Veronique, the former Veronica Daley said, smiling.

"Well, that can be remedied." Blahd smiled again, adding, "But first, I believe we have a few things to settle, and possibly some plans to be made."

"Such as?" Veronique said, sitting up. Blahd noticed that, at least from the waist up, her charms were as enticing as they had been last night. "And," she added, "Plans regarding?"

"Well, first off," he said, "Whether you might have an interest in continuing our companionship, and possibly extending and deepening the relationship from one of the moment, to a full partnership."

"Hrmm." looked thoughtful. "Might I ask, when were you brought over?"

"If it matters, I was turned in Romania some nine and a half centuries ago, in the year 1047 A.D.," Blahd said. "My estates are, or were at the time, somewhat near the borders of Wallachia."

"Ah. Myself, it was in 1153, in Brittany," Veronique said, nodding. "Well, it certainly seems we are well matched for both age and power. Relationships amongst our kind with great disparities in those seldom last, and generally end tragically."

"Too true, sadly," he said.

"Lets," she said, nodding. "It seems that we do get along, and we hunt well together. Well met, then." She held out her hand, and he took it and kissed the back before shaking it firmly. They grinned at each other. "And the plans?" she said.

"Well, I'm afraid that I am a bit embarrassed to admit that I did not recall my estates here being quite so... humble," Blahd said. "As well, I had not expected my loyal retainers to prove not quite so loyal upon letting us in with our... temporary guests and playthings."

"True, the screaming was dreadful and most unbecoming," she said. "You could have brought them over, as I suggested?"

"No. That, as you've noted, seldom ends well," Blahd said, shaking his head sadly. "A pity: they were almost like family to me."

"Hrmm. Then, do you have a suggestion?"

"Perhaps. In my wanderings last night," Blahd stated, "I noticed a rather unique and elegant old manor on Crawford Street. It is quite abandoned, and seems to have been vacant for some time. It would be simple, relatively, to make it ours, and have the utilities and amenities restored, once I access my accounts."

"Ah. Sounds wonderful," Veronique said, nodding. "I should like to see it first, of course."

"Of course."

"Well, that would rid us of the necessity of disposing of the remainders of your retainers, as well as those of our sensual sport, and later repasts."

"True indeed," Blahd said, smiling, and again, doing so a bit sadly. "Given the nature of this city, it is likely they shall remain undiscovered here for some time."

"Point."

"As well, I believe that it is high time that, once we have relocated, we should look into some sort of profitable venture," Blahd said. "I have in mind a charming nightclub... perhaps something a bit... retro. A nineteen twenties or thirties style venue, perhaps."

"That sounds simply lovely," Veronique said, nodding. "Let's do. Now... would you care to continue our activities from before, prior to rejoining the Sandman in the Lands of Nod?"

"And _that_ does sound lovely indeed," he said. "Lets."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __North Osgood Street near Wilkins Blvd__, Downtown Sunnydale, __Early Morning__ –_

"Damn, that was a job," Brandon James said to his fellow paramedic and Sunnydale County Medical Examiner's office coworker.

"Yup. Not sure how the hell this guy managed to get a third of a sixth story building dropped on him, but man – digging him out was a pain."

"Be glad someone examining the wreckage happened to notice the partial hand sticking out in here," Brandon said, "Else he wouldn't have been noticed until the _smell_ attracted attention."

"By the way," Doug Kensey, Morgue Assistant and driver said, "You sure this is a guy, even?" He looked down at the crushed and mangled corpse, his expression dubious. "Hell of a lot of really odd bodies out there last night and this morning... "

Heh. There were at that. Both oddly shaped and subtly – or not so subtly – not human bodies, and odd deaths. Such as the numerous people who had seemed to have fallen to their deaths from a great height, even though there were no tall buildings around them. And the guy who had somehow gotten himself stuck halfway into a wall...

"Huh. No," Brandon said, his own expression dubious. "Find out when the coroner does the autopsy, I guess. Maybe."

The corpse in question was at least seven feet tall, and massive despite the crushing damage it had sustained. Long blond haired, and covered in dense body hair that almost made it look furry, it was dressed in a burnt orange and brown body suit trimmed with long white fur at collar, shins, and forearms. He, or maybe it, had on a heavy brown leather jacket over the upper body suit... Clawed fingers, a heavy brow ridge, and some remaining unbroken teeth that looked somewhat like fangs, made the resemblance to humanity even more dubious.

"Well, let's get him loaded," Brandon said. "Not our job to figure them out. Hell – there's not even enough cops today to make a crime or accident scene out of this."

"Heh. Scuttlebutt has it there's not enough cops left to populate a donut shop," Doug said, snickering. "Not that Sunnydale PD could even do _that_ competently."

"Oh, come now," Brandon said as they wheeled back the gurney, and took out an extra large body bag. It took some doing with all the rubble... "Sunnydale PD is perfectly capable of eating donuts competently."

"Yeah. That's about all." Doug grunted. "Sheesh, what's this son of a bitch made of? He weighs a fucking ton!"

"Not enough Savings and Loan left to make a decent rock garden, either," Brandon said, looking around.

With more than a bit of difficulty, they got the massive body loaded and zipped up, and then onto the gurney.

They were almost half way back to the morgue when the sound of heavy duty plastic tearing and a rippling snarl came from the rear of the county hearse...

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Abandoned Amusement Park near Chato Street, Sunnydale, Early Morning – _

Not a bad place, he thought, regardless. Still has as many possibilities as he'd thought it did at first, when this place occurred to him.

Standing on the highest point of the decrepit old Hurricane Drop wooden roller coaster, watching the sun rise over his kingdom, Peter Pan snickered, and then threw his head back and laughed uproariously.

Standing next to him, Wendy looked up, raising her eyebrows curiously. "Oh? And what's so funny this fine disastrous morning, Peter?"

Grinning almost from ear to ear, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. "Oh, just thinking. My, I really, seriously underestimated our little Sergeant and her crew, didn't I?"

Starting to grin herself, Wendy reached up to touch the still tender goose egg on her forehead. "I'll say. Any more of a miscalculation, and she'd have been the death of you. Nearly was, as I recall."

Peter laughed again, even as a cold ripple went up along his spine. Those huge, pale gray eyes looking down into his over the sights of that rifle had been as cold as the fog rolling out of an open ice machine, and as remorseless and implacable as death.

He'd _seen_ his death in there, in the absolute and lethal resolve behind that gaze, and that, more than the resounding defeat her troop had handed to his forces, had been what prompted his finally backing off and calling his people to stand down.

Truly magnificent.

"Damn. Shame we couldn't have gotten her to join us," Peter said. "We really _would_ be invincible with them at our backs."

"Like she said," Wendy said, snickering, "Her Dawn girl would be running this troop in a week."

"Hell, I'd step aside and _let_ them," Peter said, grinning.

"Going to try for revenge on them?" Wendy asked, curiously.

Peter shuddered. "Do I look a complete fool, Wendy girl? Oh, hell no. I'm going to leave well enough alone, for once. And, maybe, once she's had time for her blood to cool, extend an actual and honest offer of truce and a real alliance."

"Huh. You _are_ smarter than you look."

"I'd almost have to be, wouldn't I?" Peter laughed again, and said, "C'mon. Let's go join the rest. We have work to do once we've slept."

They stepped off into open air and began to spiral down, slowly.

Hook had reverted, and his namesake had fallen away from his hand like the toy it had probably once been. Changeling... but not his lady, Lady Hook. She and more than twenty members of the Lost Boys and Girls, of all the troops and tribes, had remained as they were.

In addition to the cat girls, wolf and bear girls, both pixies, and their King, Queen, and Hatter.

Hatter, now, _he_ might be fool enough to seek vengeance. Or at least heedlessly angry enough. That would bear looking after.

Hook, while not even considering the idea of staying, had agreed to lead their worst wounded and ill used to the hospice for treatment that Peter's people, and their fae, couldn't provide. It had taken a night's worth of raids on convenience stores and pizza shop dumpsters for the two pixies to heal and charge enough to help, heal, and restore as many of the less badly injured as they could.

As badly as Peter had underestimated First Sergeant Benjy and her Irregulars, Tink and Lulu Bell had even more seriously underestimated the Irregulars' Pooka Bell.

As well, another twelve to fifteen or so had reverted, but retained their memories and skills from their night of being changelings. Of those, eleven had opted to stay as Lost Boys. Peter had gathered that their home lives were nothing to want to return to, and held no attractions for them.

Ah well – such was the stuff Lost Boys and Borribles were made from.

Peter and Wendy hadn't reverted. Or, possibly, not so much as hadn't reverted, as their old selves had merged with who they'd become into one new – and whole and integrated – being. Beings who had no more longing to rejoin their formers lives than did Wendy's unreverted and still Changeling brothers.

The wounded and now treated, those that had not reverted and left, had been straggling back in all morning. By nightfall, Peter reckoned that they'd have nearly fifty or so of their original hundred and twenty.

That was going to be a lot of work to figure out how to care for and feed so many. Peter was determined to be a good leader and Marshall for his King and Queen, and that meant taking care of their own.

Something _else_ he'd noticed the little Sergeant had had a handle on as well. Not _once_ in all of the running battles that led to their being cornered in Castle Badon, had the Irregulars _ever_ abandoned one of their own, nor let one of their injured fall behind. Not even in the face of what should have seemed _lethal_ odds. No matter _how_ much at risk it put the ones who fell back to help the injured or winded, nor how dangerous the melee facing them.

Cornered. Peter snorted derisively. Definitely a case for 'who cornered whom, huh?'

And, she'd been truthful, as had her Misty girl. The Irregulars hadn't ever deliberately set out to kill, and definitely not without serious provocation.

He had a distinct suspicion that First Sergeant Benjy _hadn't_ been trying awfully hard not to by the end of the siege, mind you. Wendy would have gone all _splat!_ as Benjy had put it, twice, if not for Peter. And several would have drowned if not for heroic efforts from their fellow Lost Boys.

That tiny girl was _lethal_ with that rock thrower. Peter needed to look into getting some of those.

"Remind me, please," Peter said, as they touched down atop Badon's upper tower, "To have Tink and Lulu begin to scout tonight for any other changelings that haven't reverted."

"Certainly. Now, let's get some rest. Going to be a long evening and longer night."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Morning 11:45am – _

Yawning, Buffy heard the sound of a radio or TV or something coming from the dining/kitchen area as she came downstairs.

"And now we return you to our KTVT Santa Barbara News Special Report...

Once again, this footage you are seeing was shot from our roving new helicopters on scene last night in the nominally sleepy suburban bedroom community of Sunnydale, California, just thirty minutes down the coast from our own lovely Santa Barbara... "

Oh-kay. Not one, but _two_ televisions. Mom or someone had brought in the small one from the den, and Dawn had apparently brought her little seventeen inch down from her room. Dawn's was perched on the window seat by the front kitchen window where it could be seen by anyone at the table. The den TV was on the other corner counter, also at the front.

Mom was busily making pancakes and waffles, as well as other breakfast stuff, the smell making Buffy's mouth water.

Dawn, Stephanie, um, Wicked, Saavik, Kitty Kat, Chessie, and Devila were all sitting around the long, butcher block topped kitchen eating and prep table past the center island and near the windows. All of them still wearing an assortment of Hello Kitty, Hello Cthulu, and My Little Pony and various other bits of Dawn's spare sleep wear. Pooka was hovering by her mom, making animated conversation with her in a high pitched, excited voice.

_That_ wasn't what almost dropped Buffy's mouth open. What did was the sight of her bratty, air headed little sister sitting quietly and intently watching the _news_ on FYI, for God's sake. _Instead_ of holed up in the family room watching Cartoon Channel and Saturday morning Nickelodeon.

Not only that, but Dawn was up before _noon_ after staying up until four forty-five AM... _voluntarily_, Buffy would almost bet, from the way she was glued to the news screen. Sign of the Apocalypse.

"Oh, don't fret about that, Mrs. Summers," Wicked was saying as she walked in. "As you are our hostess _and_ host, and we are guests in your home, as guests, it is our duty to observe and follow _your_ guidelines. Within reasonable limits, the host always sets the standards for dress or undress, and manners, whether High Court to yeoman informality or even skin. It is the guest's requirement to meet their _host__'__s_ traditions, not to embarrass or offend their host by appearing to dress or act above or below the manner set in the household. At least, among _gentlepeople_ it is... "

"Well, we don't do much High Court around here, Wicked," Buffy said, grabbing her mug and heading for the coffee maker. "We're pretty informal. Hey, mom."

"Hey, Buffy. Sleep well?"

"Oh, yeah," Buffy grinned, more at the sight of the tiny Pooka Bell than anything else.

"Shhhhh!" Dawn said, holding up a hand.

"Shh yourself, squirt," Buffy said as she slid into a chair, smiling a greeting at the other kids.

"Quiet, I wanna hear this," Dawn said. She picked up the remote and turned up the small set a hair.

"Meanwhile, here at FYI, we have exclusive video footage from the field reporter team of our affiliates at the L.A. Beacon. As you doubtless know by now, last night, at least officially, Sunnydale, California was the site of mass rioting in conjunction with several attacks by armed, domestic terrorists. Or was it... ?

Before we roll it, I'm going to give you my personal guarantee that our video and film specialists have been over this footage exhaustively in determining its authenticity. As best as can be determined within the time frame we've had to work in, this footage is real: not altered, not the result of advanced post production, special effects studios, nor advanced CGI techniques. You may or may not wish to believe that, and as always, it's your prerogative. We inform, you decide.

This footage was taken on an intersection near a Savings and Loan in downtown Sunnydale, at 9:10 pm by the time stamp..."

Buffy's jaw dropped. "Wow. That's _Danny! _And that's that, uh, Sabreteeth guy. Mom! Check this out – it's that Iron Fisty guy! And Angel! And omg! Aura and wow – he just threw _Kendra_ across the _street!_"

"Shh!"

"Oh, _you_ hush, Dawn. I'm listening... "

"My." Joyce paused, her eyes widening. "_That's_ that Sabretooth guy you were telling me about? And Daniel Rand? No _wonder_ he looked half shredded... "

"Good lord," Stephanie said, her eyes wide also. "I've _never_ seen Fist fight that well before. Creed, either."

"There's Angel and that reporter guy he told me about running for the car with Kendra... and Aura," Buffy said. "Oh, god, all that blood... "

"Shh!"

Everyone in the room groaned when apparently the cameraman, whoever he was, lost control of the camera briefly and it captured several sweeping seconds of asphalt before it came back up... just in time to see Creed roll drunkenly to his feet, leap with outstretched claws, and Daniel turn and knock him through the wall of the Savings and Loan. Back of the head first.

Everyone winced at the impact, and again when the entire corner of the building collapsed on the beast man.

"Remind me to never, _ever_ pick a fight with Danny," Buffy said, "Or Jesse or whoever he is now... " Several heads nodded, wide eyed.

"Oh, look – there's Buffy and a huge monkey," Devila said excitedly, pointing at the other TV.

"That you can shh for, Dawn," Buffy said, grinning at her sister. Dawn stuck her tongue out back at her.

Joyce started taking plates and setting them in front of people as FYI cut to what was apparently the Mayor's press room at City Hall, and a press conference by Wilkins where he was explaining the hallucinogenic gas leak that had supposedly caused last night's events. FYI immediately put up an inset window with a montage of footage showing scenes of monsters, creatures, costumed fire fighters, sexy nurses, and costume police assisting real police and firemen and EMTs, and footage of Kendra and Aura's fight against Spike, complete with a slowmo repeat of Spike dusting with an astonished expression on his face.

"Sh'yeah, right," Anchorwoman Murphy Brown said over the Mayor's voice. "Hallucinogenic gas leak my BLEEP! BLEEP! BLEEP!"

"Also, coming up, we have interviews and some footage on the alleged terrorist assault that apparently left over three quarters of the police inside of the Sunnydale Police Station dead, dying, or injured last night at approximately 10:55pm. Also: exclusive interviews with survivors of last night's mass shooting event at Sunnydale's teen night club, the Bronze. And for a slight bit of lighter coverage, interviews with survivors of what diners at Sunnydale's Pizza Barn restaurant calls 'an invasion of giant green and purple, glowing rabid bats.'"

"Hey! That's me!" Pooka Bell said, doing a loop the loop over the table and pointing at the screen.

"All this and more after our commercial break."

"Heh. Too bad _we_ didn't get interviewed," Dawn said, grinning from ear to ear. "We'd of had some stories for that Kolchak guy!"

The rest of the Irregulars nodded enthusiastically, grinning back at her.

"Now now," Joyce said, "Publicity isn't all its cracked up to be. Just ask Buffy." She winked and grinned a bit maliciously at Buffy.

"Oh, ha ha! I'm never gonna live down my Fay Rae moment, huh?" Buffy said.

"Nope," a number of voices said back.

"Just not _fair_," Buffy said, whining. "Dawn and you guys are heroes. _I'm_ the girl with the giant monkey."

Joyce laughed, and then looked at her seriously. "What have you planned for today, dear?"

"Library," Buffy said, shoveling in a mouthful of waffle and bacon. After chewing and swallowing, she added, "Giles called, like, _way_ too early considering it was before one, even, and said we needed a post apocalypse party and debriefing."

"Uh huh... " Joyce said. "All right, but I have to say, I'm not real happy about this whole slayer thing. Do, however, see if you can find out about Xander and that Cordelia girl? And Kendra?"

"Yup. Top of my list, mom." Buffy finished chewing and gulping down another mouthful, "And, hey – I haven't been happy about it since I was chosen. Join the club. But someone's gotta do it." She pointed a finger at Dawn, and added, "And stay _out_ of my diary, Brat."

"Who, me?"

"We'll try and keep her in line, Miss Buffy," Princess Wicked said. Dawn stuck her tongue out and muttered something that sounded like 'suck up'.

"Thanks, and hey, what is your name, anyway?" Buffy said. "I don't want to call you 'Wicked' all the time."

"Ah. It is Princess Ephasia Amanitaceae," she said.

Buffy stared at her, trying to wrap her mind and her vocal cords around that. Finally, she shook her head, "I may just stay with Wicked. Pretty name, though. And why Wicked, if you're not really evil?"

"Well, evil and wickedness aren't the same thing," Wicked, or Ephasia, said, "It's, hrrm. All right, just say that where one might have a situation where there's a nice response, and a wicked or cruel one, my first instinct will always be to be mean or petty, or to say or do something cruel. I have to think about it and deliberately not do the wicked thing, whereas you might automatically do the nice thing." Dawn snickered at that, and Buffy lightly dope slapped her reflexively. "But ever since joining the Irregulars, I'm finding more and more that I pause and think of the nicer thing and do it instead."

"Well, try not to be too wicked around here," Buffy said, nodding. "Mom'll get mad."

Wicked looked shocked. "Of course not! That would be _rude_, and would violate guest host courtesy traditions."

"Huh. You _do_ take that seriously," Buffy said. Glancing over, she frowned, and said, "Hey! I thought Vulcans were vegans."

"They are, but I was raised Romulan," Saavik said, blissfully forking up some bacon. "I always conformed to Vulcan mores because it pleased my foster father and mentor, but I happen to like meat. Even if it is considered uncivilized."

"You'll fit right in here then," Buffy said, nodding. Draining the last of her orange juice and then milk, and scraping her plate clean, she said, "Ok. Gotta go. See ya."

"Have fun storming the castle, dear."

"Mom! _Don't_ mention castles around us for at least a year," Dawn said. "No more castles. And I'm never _ever_ watching Peter Pan again. I'm gonna burn every copy in the public library, too."

"No you're not," Joyce said. "Oh – before you go, Buffy? Could you hunt up your old dollhouse in the attic and bring it down, please? I'd like it for Pooka Bell, and the little tea set from inside of it so she'll have something to eat and drink from."

"Sure. As long as she never jabs me in the nose with a sword again."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Sunnydale High School Library, Sunnydale, Afternoon 1:30pm –_

"Hey! It's the heroic Lady Aura," Buffy said, spying the now familiar figure walking down the hall toward her. She waved, grinning at the other girl.

"Buffy, hey," Aura said, grinning back. "And, hey – I am so very _seriously_ pissed off at you, Cinderella."

"Uh oh. What'd I do now?"

"You didn't let Cordy tell me about the freaking vampires and demons and frigging monsters all over this town! The _real_ ones!" Aura said, scowling at her. "I could have _died_ last night when that freaky insane _Drusilla_ chick showed up at the ER, if I hadn't remembered my Dracula. Just as well that Holy Water and crosses _do_ work, jeeze."

Buffy sighed, and said, "Yeah, I'm _so_ sorry. But it was supposedly like, this huge 'secret identity' thing for the Slayer and Giles and Merrick wouldn't let me tell anyone. And then _Giles_ freaking goes and tells my _mom!_ I'm gonna _kill_ him."

"Ah. Well... provisionally, you're forgiven, since I lived," Aura said. "But if she'd killed me, I'd have haunted you for-_ever_ until you committed suicide from guilt. And _then_ I'd have kicked your _ass_ in the ghost whatevers."

Laughing, Buffy nodded, reaching for the library door handle. "Wouldn't blame you. And hey, I've got this murder, torture-murder, then suicide thing halfway planned for Angel and Giles."

"Sounds cool. Can I help?" Aura said, laughing as she followed Buffy in. "Who's committing suicide?"

"Sure. And... Haven't decided yet. Maybe my little sister if I can figure out how to keep Mom out of the loop."

"Why, hello Buffy," Giles said as they walked up giggling. "So glad you could make it."

"Don't start, Giles. You're on thin ice," Buffy said, smiling. "Hey, Ms. Calendar, Willow, Daniel – uh, Jesse? And hey – Angel! You're out in daylight!"

"Tunnels under the school," Angel said, smiling slightly. Buffy's glare killed that very quickly.

"Buffy!" Willow said, jumping up. "And, hey, Aura."

Aura grinned at Willow as she went around the table and pulled a chair up extremely close to Jesse before sitting down. "Will."

"You – " Buffy said, aiming an index finger at Angel. "I'm dusting you and replacing you with Sheila. Just wanted to warn you. Run now, even if it'll only mean you die tired."

"Uh... " Angel's eyes widened. "Me? What did I do?"

"Oh, I dunno. Gee, Alex, could it be 'Who told my mom I'm a slayer for ten thousand?'" Buffy said, smiling malevolently at him. "Why yes it could, Miss Summers. Come on down and claim your NEW CAR!"

Aura and Jesse started snickering.

"Ah. That... "

"Oh. _That_."

"Umm, I'm afraid that was my fault, Buffy," Giles said, removing his glasses and beginning to polish them. "We had to tell your mother something, given all the chaos and the fact that she walked in on us, err, ah, researching with some very unusual tomes."

"Don't worry, Giles," Buffy said, turning the smile on him. He blanched suddenly. "You're in this too."

"But for you there's torture involved," Aura said, grinning. "Either before or after the murder. She wasn't specific."

"Haven't decided yet," Buffy said.

"Oh, please, Buffy," Ms. Calendar said, laughing. "You can't kill Giles. I haven't slept with him yet." Giles flushed bright red and started choking.

"See? Told ya. She thinks you're a babe, like, totally," Buffy said. "Ok, for you he gets a reprieve. Angel is still doomed."

"Buffy! You can't dust Angel," Willow said, scowling at her. "He helped us all last night, and saved Kendra's life."

"Well, maybe. I'll think about it," Buffy said, grudgingly.

"Err, ahh, Shelia?" Giles said, still blushing.

"Martini? From Parent's Night, tried to kill me and you warned me?" Buffy said. "She got all weird last night, and instead of doing vampire things, hooked up with Good Witch Amy and wandered around killing other vampires. And then helped me, Magilla, and this Dresden guy lead a bunch of kids across town to Fondren, if you can believe it. And bought me a huge dinner. She says, and I believe her, that she has, like zero clue what happened to her, she just doesn't feel all vampiry any more."

"Ah, umm... '" Giles blinked at her, looking nonplussed.

"Well, kind of believe her. She's on parole and I'm her probation officer," Buffy said. "First clue she's back to normal, and dusty-ville. But what I think is, she said she found out her mom dumped a bunch of her old costume stuff at some resale store, and Shelia ransomed them back. From that place on Main where we all bought _our_ costumes."

"Ethan's?" Jenny asked, looking fascinated.

"Uh huh. That'd be the one," Buffy said, nodding.

"So, you, ah, think that something affected her as well? She became her costume?" Giles said.

"No, since it was _her_ stuff," Buffy said, "I think she became _herself_. Still, like, psycho girl, but not really _evil_. Just warped. And with a _major_ like fangirl thing for this Dresden guy and the Witch Amy went as. Didn't even drain her mom before that, jeeze. Said she actually liked her mom and sis even if mom was a bitca sometimes."

"Ah. I see... "

"So," Buffy said, settling in at the end of the table facing everyone, "What's up? Anyone catch the news? And, anyone hear anything about Cordy and Xan?"

There was a round of yups, yeahs, and uh huhs around the table. Aura nodded and said, "Talked to both of 'em late late last night. Apparently _Larry_ went all Terminator and tried to kill Cordy, and _Xander_ saved her. Talked to Tam too this morning – our latest Cordette pledge? – she was there and said it was _seriously_ bad news at the Bronze. A _ton_ of people got dead or injured, and Aphrodesia and Owen got killed."

"Yes," Giles said, "I spoke with Cordelia last night also, at the police station. She was the one who gave me the information that led us to Ethan. I, ah, haven't been able to determine whether she's still in jail or not... nor Xander."

"Not. Stein let them go, she said. I think," Aura said. "They weren't at Sunnydale PD anymore, anyway, but she wouldn't say _where_ they were exactly so Larry couldn't, like, make one of _us_ tell."

Willow nodded vigorously. "Gods, saw the Police Station thing on the news. Horrible. They said that almost all of the Sunnydale PD is dead."

"Oh!" Aura said, starting to grin. "And Cordy and Xander are boyfriend and girlfriend now."

"Yes!" Jesse said, grinning and pumping his fist.

Willow stared at him. "But, I mean, you... _Xander? _And _Cordelia?_"

"Oh, come on, Will," Jesse said, "I mostly drooled after Cordy all through seventh and eighth grade and freshman and sophomore year to kinda hopefully get Xander mad enough to deck me and quit with the freaking UST, for gods sake. Ok, so I had a crush on her too, but, wah."

Willow's jaw dropped. "But- but but.. you went after her when you were all grr and was going to, like, uh, do bad things, kill, and then turn her! And Xander had to stake you – he felt _awful_."

"Well, yeah. Vampire?" Jesse said. "It's kind of the thing to do, I'm told. And screw that: Xander saved Cordy. He's got nothing to feel bad about."

"Jeeze, Will, grab a clue," Aura said, rolling her eyes. "Swear to God, Willow. You can be the dumbest genius I ever met sometimes." Willow's jaw dropped again and she glared at Aura, making fishy mouth motions. "Yeah yeah, life long crush, dated Xander when you were five yata yata. He and Cordy were freaking married in the first grade when we were all, like, six or seven. She's got first claim, sheesh."

"She does?" Buffy blinked. "They were?"

"But but, hey! No she doesn't!" Willow said, almost spluttering. "And hey again! Xander stole my _Barbie_ and used it for Cordy's _dowry!_ Jerk!"

"I stole your Barbie, Will," Jesse said. "And gave it to Xan. He just ate the blame for it."

"You... " Willow went back to making fish mouths. "Jerk! Schmuck! And hey – why are you and Aura holding hands?"

"Because, Will," Aura said, still grinning. "I decided I'm keeping him. Even if he's not Danny Rand any more."

"You... "

"Me."

"You... "

"Yup."

"Auuuuuuuuuuuugghhh!" Willow glared at them. "I hate you both."

"Ahem. If we could abandon the Dating Game for the time being, and get back to other topics? More important ones, let's say?" Giles said, replacing his glasses.

"Speak for yourself," Buffy said. "_I'm_ finding all of this fascinating."

"Ahem." Giles glared at her, and Buffy sighed.

"Fine." Rolling her eyes, Buffy brightened and said, "Oh! As if Dawn wasn't enough, apparently I have six new little sisters now. And a Pooka Bell."

Aura nodded at her, grinning. "Wondered when you were gonna get to that. I was there when Dawn talked your mom into the mass adoption at the hospital cafeteria."

"Ah. Now I hate you, too," Buffy said. "I'll add you to my list."

"A Pooka Bell?" Ms. Calendar said, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes. Tiny blonde pixie about yea tall," Buffy held her thumb and forefinger apart as wide as they'd go. "With little wings and a green dress. Freaking _adorable_, at least when she's not stabbing me in the darned _nose_ with her _sword_."

"I, ah, good lord," Giles said. The glasses went off again, hastily, and out came the polishing rag.

"Yeah. When everything went back, apparently not everything went back," Aura said. "Miss Captain America, Saavik the little Vulcan girl, the two cat girls – "

"Kitty Kat and Chessie," Buffy said, nodding, "_They're_ adorable too. Kinda like life size plushie dolls. Mom had to forbid Dawnie from sleeping with them in a big puppy pile."

"Yeah, well, just don't attack Dawn or one of the others," Aura said, grinning. "I understand that 'Kat can be lethal. And seriously protective. They all are."

"Uh huh," Buffy said, nodding. "Got lots of the story, from like eight different views last night before everyone yawned out. Oh – and Devila the little devil girl, with, like, real horns and a tail, and Princess Wicked. Who really is kinda sweet and not all that wicked."

"Ah, uh, umm... extraordinary is the only word that comes to mind," Giles said, blinking. "And these came from where?"

"Sunnydale Irregulars, Giles. The ones that didn't turn back," Aura said. "They're all First Sergeant Benjy's scout team."

"Oh! We saw them come in," Willow said, excitedly. "And met Benjy and her parents."

"Uh huh," Jesse said. "Seriously impressive little group."

"Ah, uh, not so little," Willow said. "There's like forty of 'em. And wow, yeah. Impressive in a kind of really cute and really scary way." Aura nodded.

"Yup. Gathered that," Buffy said. "Hey – I almost got Irregulared right in my own _living_ room!"

"Extraordinary," Giles said, again. Ms. Calendar nodded.

"So, these six, uh, seven didn't turn back?" Ms. Calendar said, frowning. "Wow... that's, uh... "

"Scary?" Jesse said.

"Well, not the word I wanted, but, yeah, actually," Ms. Calendar said.

"Even scarier," Aura said. "Cordy thinks Larry may not have de-Terminatored. And Xand said _Harmony_ bought _another_ Terminator outfit. Same place."

"Yikes! And almost as bad – it means freaking _Creed_ may not have." Jesse said, scowling.

Buffy's eyes went wide. "Oh, crap. Man. I saw you and him on the news this morning. Seriously impressive, Jesse. Had all of your faces blanked out with that blurry thing, 'cept for Creed's, but I still recognized the clothes. And _hey_ – we ever figure out why you came back?"

"Not a single clue," Jesse said, shrugging. "Giles, Ms. Calendar, and Will and I were discussing that when you and Aura came in."

"Oh, dear lord," Giles said. "You mean the killer, ah, cyborg may not have reverted as Cordelia had hoped he would? And there may be a-another one? A-and that beast man as well?"

"Good chance," Aura said. "If you go by the 'never only good things come' theory. For every Chessie and Pooka Bell, there probably has to be a Sabretooth."

"Oh good lord," Giles repeated. Angel nodded, looking at him.

"You keep saying that," Buffy said. "It's making me all nervousy."

"It should," Angel said. "Creed was... "

"Hey, saw him, got the memo," Buffy said. "I was nearly his first victim."

"Not sure if this goes in the good news or bad news column," Jesse said. "But I apparently kept all of Danny's memories. And his fighting skills... "

"Oh, dear lord... "

"Stop that, Giles," Buffy said, aiming a finger at him and scowling. "We're removing those words from your vocabulary, like, immediately."

"Try 'Inconceivable!' instead," Aura suggested, grinning. Willow started snickering.

"I do not think that word means what you seem to think it means," Willow said, and they both dissolved in laughter.

"Yes, well, very funny," Giles said, "However, this is a potentially disastrous situation."

"We know, Giles," Jesse said. "We're all just kind of punchy still from last night, is all."

Everyone nodded, and Giles grimaced, and then nodded finally. "True. It would be most, er, inconceivable for you to not be."

"See? There's the spirit," Jenny said, poking Giles in the ribs and smiling at him.

"Wait," Angel said, frowning. "These uh, cat and faerie girls are from the little gang that Michael and Michelle Sheridan's daughter brought back?"

"Gang: wrong word. Wrong implication, Angel," Aura said. "Think: _army_ and you're closer to the picture. Or maybe army ants. Troops, seriously. Little soldiers."

Angel frowned even deeper. "Huh."

"Oh yeah. And, like, little freaking heroes from what I gather," Buffy said. "I want to _meet_ this Benjy girl. I want _her_ to adopt _me_ and give _me_ hero lessons."

"I'll see if I can arrange it," Jesse said, grinning at her.

"Kewl. You know what I was doing when I was eleven?" Buffy said, rolling her eyes, "Watching Power Girl on Saturday morning cartoons and practicing to be Dorothy Hamill. _This_ kid's raising an _army_ and defeating other armies. And real demons. And _Spike_, even. _Sheesh_."

"Spike?" Giles nearly fumbled his glasses. "Surely you jest."

"Oh yeah. No jesty. Sent him packing with an arrow in his butt, according to my new sisters," Buffy said. "_And_ his gang. Ok Jesse, so, can you also do the like, Iron Fisty thing too?"

Everyone looked curiously at Jesse, who looked a bit embarrassed. "Yeah, kinda. Not real well, yet, though. But I may just be burned out from Daniel nearly killing us overusing it last night."

"Wow. Ok. Me not ever pick fight with you," Buffy said, "Seriously. But hey – you wanna train and spar sometime? Save wear and tear of the Padded Giles."

"Sure," Jesse said. "I'll try and go easy on you."

Buffy's eyes widened. "Ok. _Now_ you're _on_." She grinned.

"Hmm. What about you, Buffy? Any lingering side effects?" Jenny Calendar said, looking at her curiously.

"Well... I now know everything there is to know about running a household in the sixteen hundreds, from the ground up. And all of the high court stuff Cindy's fairy godmother taught her. Oh – and I'll probably ace my French and Spanish classes this year," Buffy said. "Oh, and I miss my gorilla, too. He was pretty cool once I got to know him. I want my gorilla back, darn it."

Aura grinned at her. "Tell me!" she said. "I want my freaking machineguns back. Darn it. They turned back into air-soft toys after the spell thing broke, apparently. I've gotta get me some real ones somehow."

Everyone gave her a slightly alarmed look, except for Jesse. "Ah dunno... one round of 'come get some' and 'you'll never take us alive, copper!' was more than enough." He and Angel looked at each other and both started snickering.

"Oh, shut up. Both of you," Aura said, folding her arms over her chest. "That's it – we're through."

"Gee, that was quick," Buffy said. "Short relationship."

"Willow?" Jenny asked.

"Well, I can't walk through walls any more, gosh darn it. And I haven't tried the cold wind and blowing trash can things yet, but," Willow said, grinning, and then her eyes widened, "I'll bet I know more about what happens to spirits that don't cross over here and the Ghost Roads than anyone else. And, but, oh! My parents are gonna ground me forever! Good thing I can access the house accounts and at least get the windows fixed, and get a contractor started, sheesh."

Shaking his head, Giles said, "Well, at least you did not stay a ghost. That was... most disconcerting."

"Ummm... Giles?" Willow said. "Can any of this be changed back?"

"Umm... " Giles looked distant for several minutes as if deep in concentration. "Possibly, Willow. But I do somewhat doubt it. Apparently, Ethan drew upon a great deal more power than he anticipated, and also apparently, Janus gave him precisely what he asked for. And more."

"In spades," Jenny said, making a face.

"Yes, quite. I can't begin to imagine a ritual that might undo the workings of a greater god, unless he and Chaos both are amenable to restoring the status quo," Giles said, sighing. "I shall, of course, look further into it. It will require a great deal of – "

"Research!" everyone in the library shouted and then broke up laughing.

"Yes, well, quite." Giles smiled tightly, and nodded.

"Ok so what do we do about this Larry bot? And Sabretoothy if he turns out to still be here?" Buffy said, scowling.

"For your part, Buffy?" Giles said. "Stay far, far away from both of them."

"But – "

"No buts. You are not familiar with, nor prepared to go up against an apparently indestructible creature that uses heavy firearms. None of us are."

"And Creed is like, seriously bad news, Buffy," Jesse said. "He's stronger than that Kendra girl. And faster, too. He damned near killed Daniel Rand twice. Five or six times if you count the fights they had in the comics and in Danny's world."

"Hrmm. I don't like the idea of running."

"Tam _saw _this thing, Buffy. From, like, close up," Aura said, frowning. "She saw it soak up like, two _magazines_ of twelve gauge slugs, and she didn't know _how_ many rounds of 45 caliber sub-machinegun ammo. It killed Cordelia's _parents_, too."

"Oh, gods," Willow said, clapping her hand over her mouth and looking horrified. "It gets worse and worse."

"Saw that on the news too," Buffy said. "As I was leaving. Major suckiness."

"You'll like the idea of dying even less, Buffy," Angel said. "I like the idea of you dying a lot less. Believe me. Even if you are mad at me."

"Sigh. I don't like that idea either. Been there once, done that, got the souvenir ashtray and snow-globe even," Buffy said. "I'll think about it. But no promises."

"I would rather that you promised," Giles said. "However, knowing you, I'll accept that much for now."

Buffy nodded. "So," she said, looking at Aura, "Welcome to the Scooby Gang."

Aura's eyes widened. "You named your _group_ after a bunch of kids centered around a large – "

"_Don't_ finish that sentence," Buffy said, smiling. "Seriously. Don't go there. I've gotten enough 'Wanna Scooby snack' and 'head bitca' jokes from Xander and Cordy so far."

"Ah." Aura said, miming zipping her lips closed. "Mums the word, girlfriend. No Scooby snack comments, no sir ma'am."

"Good."

"Still say we would have gotten away with it if it weren't for those darned kids and that dog, though."

"That's it. You're back on the list. _Right_ below Angel, Giles, and my sister. I'm sure Willow will help if we throw in Cordelia as a freebie."

* * *

.


	5. Light the Candles, Raise the Drawbridge

**Chapter ****Forty****: ****Light the Candles, ****Raise**** the ****Drawbridge****, Set**** the Lock****s**** Upon the Door****s****–**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, Afternoon 1:__35__pm –_

BOOM!

Cordelia rocked backward, working the bolt as the big rifle recoiled and came back down, just the way Rory had shown her. She eyed the distant cloud of rock dust with satisfaction, grinning from ear to ear. Only fifty yards, and not a hundred, but hey – hitting a cinder block with express sights on your first go round with a gun that heavy was an accomplishment at any range.

Especially after only twenty shots down range...

Lowering the rifle, she rubbed her shoulder. "Ow. And, like, _way_ kewl," she said. "Think you're right though, Rory. This is _too_ heavy. The .416 is easier on the shoulder, even if it jumps sharper."

"Shoots flatter, too," Rory said, nodding. "And hits hard. But nothing flattens something like a .505," he added.

"You're just saying that because you didn't get a .600, sir," Xander said, grinning.

"Don't get smart with me, boy," Rory said, laughing.

"He can't," Cordelia said. "He's as smart as he's ever gonna get."

"Oh, ha ha," Xander said, snickering. "Coming from _you_, that's rich."

Cordelia stuck her tongue out at him, trading the fifteen pound, heavy barreled scoped Gibbs for the somewhat lighter nine and a half pound heavy barreled Mannlicher-Schoenauer in .375 H&H.

"See? I'll have Cordy whoop your butt," Rory said. "And she'll do it, too. Besides, they didn't _have_ any bolt action .600s back then. Still don't."

"Damn straight I would." Shouldering the rifle, Cordelia took aim through the scope at the more distant, hundred yard cinder block.

BOOM!

It turned into a cloud of distant concrete dust also, and she worked the bolt smoothly as it went back, up, and down. "Sweet," she said. "But after twenty rounds of _that_ thing, and a hundred of .416, I think my shoulder's had enough, darn it."

Hrrrm. Hefting the Mannlicher, she set it down by Rory's bench rest and picked up the twelve and a half pound heavy barreled Griffin & Howe from the sandbags. The Mannlicher-Schoenauer _was_ sweet, but Xander and Rory were right: the .416 Rigby would do more damage, even to the supposedly invincible Larry-bot. Okay, Mr. Griffin and Mr. Howe it is.

Besides, that gorgeous, hand rubbed, linseed oil finished Circassian walnut stock was just so _very_ pretty...

Okay, so sue her: she still liked pretty things. She wasn't gonna give up _all_ of her shallow yet. No way.

"We need to save some rounds, anyway, for just in case," Xander said. "At least until Rory can load up some more solids. But these soft points seem to do a decent job on those blocks."

Xander threw the heavy .505 to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger almost as soon as it leveled. There was a loud rolling crash, and another hundred yard cinder-block blew into dust and gravel chips.

Cordelia blinked. Impressive. Hicks_ must've_ left a few things behind, at that.

"Hey, soft or solid, it's still six hundred grains of mass," Rory said, "At twenty two hundred and fifty feet per second."

"So, what do you think, Soldier Dweeb?" Cordelia asked.

"Huh." Xander's eyes narrowed and went distant, briefly. "Well, it'll know it's been whopped, unlike shaking off those twelve gauge slugs. Doubt it'll penetrate, either one of these, but if one hits right over the brain, or over the backup processor, it might just cause a reset and reboot."

"Meaning?" Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him, frowning slightly.

"Lock it up, slow it down, and make it freeze up, briefly," Xander said.

"Giving you time to hit it several more times in the same place, and maybe do some real damage," Rory said, nodding.

"Or nail it with something that might actually do the job," Xander said, nodding. "Like one of the toys I'm thinking of."

"Well, let's pack up and go in and fix some coffee and lunch," Cordelia said. "I'm curious to see just what these damned toys you keep talking about are."

Xander grinned at her, and said, "Think homemade shaped charge."

"Which means zippo to me, dork," Cordelia said, "But if it'll hurt old Larry-bot? Kewl. Bring it. Bastard killed my _parents_. _And_ my friends. I want it dead and _junked_. And then melted down for scrap metal."

* * *

"Ok, so, background-wise... this Moloch demon that got scanned onto the Internet, he posed as a kid named Malcolm something and got Willow to date him – "

"Wait, I thought Malcolm was a robot," Cordelia said, frowning.

"That came later, after he got the AP computer geeks to build him a robot body – "

"Ok, so Willow dated a robot? Gee, I knew she had problems attracting guys, but – "

"Are _you_ going to let me tell this sometime before the Larry-bot kills us?" Xander glared at Cordelia.

"Sheesh. Fine, go ahead," Cordelia said, throwing her hands up. She mimed zipping her lips. "Shoot."

Xander scowled as she and Rory exchanged grins, and then shook his head a bit ruefully. So, why was it always _this_ girl that got under his skin, one way or another? Since they were freaking kids, jeeze...

Cordelia winked at him, and took a bite of her sandwich.

Ah, that's why. Because she was gorgeous, smart, sexy, snarky, and didn't have any quit in her, that's why... a perfect freaking match for him. Always had been, always would be...

_Other_ Xander had to be a frigging idiot to almost lose her _twice_, for God's sake.

Xander shook his head again, grinning, and said, "OK. Malcolm got onto the internet, caused all kinds of havoc, got himself a robot body built, and then tried to kill Willow when she rejected him. Long story short, she and Buffy managed to electrocute the robot body and Giles and Ms. Calendar exorcised Malcolm boy from the 'net. Which should have been the end of it, but – "

"He left a cob or something behind, right, you said that," Cordelia said.

"Kernel," Xander said, "And if you don't stop that, I'm gonna let the Larry-bot have you."

"No you won't, hero," Cordelia said, snickering. "You want to see those red panties again." Rory started laughing so hard he choked on a bite of sandwich.

Rolling his eyes, Xander forged onward. "I'll check under your skirt after he shoots you. So, we skip ahead then to Halloween and Ethan Rayne's little nightmare fuel generator, where we figured that Xander Harris, aka me, got left with the memories of a veteran soldier – _possibly_ Hicks, assuming that's who I dressed as in the original time-line. Or maybe someone else... " Xander shrugged. "Hard to say. _Still_ haven't sorted all of those memories out yet... Which more or less takes us up to later, after _that_ whole mess got dealt with. Not sure who or what you dressed as either, originally, but somehow, we got together afterward."

"Must've been as something crazy, because I'd have to be insane to date you, but go on," Cordelia said, grinning.

"Sigh. I'm beginning to hate my life," Xander said. He bit off a hunk of his cheeseburger and chewed and swallowed before plowing on. "In all realities. So, somehow, we found out about the soldier stuff left behind, which somehow also woke up remnants of my little hyena possession from the year before – "

"Wait," Cordelia said, holding up a hand, her eyes going wide, "You were possessed by a hyena? What?"

"Sure. Thought you'd heard about that?"

"Ok, wait, all this stuff has been going on in Sunnydale all along? Demons, hyena possessions, killer demonic robots... " Rory shook his head. "Where the hell have I been?"

"Hiding out in the desert like a hermit?" Cordelia suggested.

"Don't start with me, girl... "

"No idea, Rory," Xander said, laughing. "Like I said: best kept unsecret in Sunnydale. You'd be amazed at how many people see this crap and just gloss over it, or invent excuses for it all."

"Not any more, apparently," Cordelia said. She looked pointedly at the kitchen TV, which was showing a repeat of the FYI clip of Iron Fist vs Sabretooth in the steel cage match of the century. "Wow. And they even got that Spike guy dusting on camera. I don't think Sunnydale has ever gotten this much news footage... "

"I can't _believe_ that's probably _Jesse_ under that mask, according to Aura," Xander said. "Wow. And no, Hicks didn't remember reading _anything_ about all this in the histories and briefing notes. Like I said: things _change_ when you send something back."

"Like Buffy and the Gorilla her dreams?" Cordelia said, snickering.

"An improvement over Angel. At least the gorilla has a pulse," Xander said, snickering along with her. "But I don't think that Sunnyhell is under the radar any more, no. So, we skip forward a bit past the Sisterhood of Jhe demons in twelfth grade trying to open the Hellmouth, which is only important because they come back in later."

"So, who is this Kyle Jordan Reese's mom?" Cordelia said, sipping at her iced tea and looking at him curiously.

"Ah... doesn't matter. You've never met her, and with things all changing, odds are you and I never will," Xander said. "Seriously."

Cordelia nodded. "Maybe. But – ever cheat on me, and I'll make your life a living hell, what little there will be of it left."

"And that's different how?" Xander said, raising an eyebrow. Cordelia stuck her tongue out at him.

"Wait. Didn't you say that things adjust?" Rory said. "So he'll probably be born somehow?"

"Uh... maybe. It's really hard to say now."

"Quit being evasive, dork."

"Sigh. Ok, she was a Slayer," Xander said. "Called after this Kendra girl got killed, uh, briefly. We hooked up briefly, if you want to call it that, when you and I broke up for awhile. Happy now?"

"No, but I'm satisfied," Cordelia said. "And it figures. You and your Slayer fixation. Carry on. What happened to her?"

"Became a leader of the resistance later, along with us and that little Beverly girl," Xander said.

"Wait – your little First Sergeant Benjy?" Cordelia said, her eyes widening.

"Yeah. Bizarre how things do keep coming back around, huh?" Xander said, shaking his head. "Ok, so, later on, there's this freaky clandestine government operation on the Hellmouth run by some weird mad scientist broad. _They_ create a demon-human hybrid cyborg called ADAM. Which gets infected by the MALCOLM kernel, until Buffy somehow destroys the ADAM borg. I'm a bit unclear on how that happened, because Hicks was."

"Not big on sharing Intel, your resistance group, huh?" Rory said, shaking his head.

"Hey, gotta remember: things got _real_ chaotic after Judgment Day, Rory," Xander said. "A lot of records were destroyed, and it was a scramble just to stay _alive_ for the survivors. History classes were kind of in-between, and figuring out how to kill Terminators and put ADAM and MALCOLM down for keeps was the major priority."

"Point taken, Xan," Rory said, nodding.

"Ok, I'll buy that for a dollar," Cordelia said, nodding. "But if you think I'm gonna break up with you so you can sleep with some Slayer, think again, buddy."

Xander grinned. "Naw. Kyle will just have to figure out some other way to get born. I'd have to be nuts to sleep around on you."

"You'd lose them, for one thing," Cordelia said, grinning back.

"I do know, or Hicks did, that we do kill a Terminator somewhere back in all of this. An older advance infiltration model that somehow got sent back to the fifties, went nuts, and turned into a Bluebeard type serial killer," Xander said. "That's one of the things that led to discovering the whole time travel thing for the resistance. The Terminator 720 series was named, uh, Tad or something. Dated Buffy's mom and almost added her to the list."

"Geeze. What _is_ it with women around here and evil robots and vampires, anyway?" Cordelia shook her head. "They can't buy a vibrator?"

"No clue, Cordy," Xander said, laughing. "Anyway, we somehow closed the Hellmouth in 2003 or '04, and good old Sunnydale fell into a crater." He paused dramatically and made a 'your cue' gesture to Cordelia.

She obliged him with: "Yay!" and clapping. "About freaking time _someone_ did. Yeesh."

"We all ended up in Cleveland somehow, rebuilding the Watcher's Council," Xander said, continuing. "And so did the rebuilt Initiative Project. Which is where things got really, really bad... "

"I'll just bet that didn't end well," Rory said, shaking his head. "Why is it that every time the Gov gets involved in something, it becomes a disaster?"

"It's a knack they have, Rory," Cordelia said. "It's a wonder you and my daddy didn't hang out more, sheesh. You have such similar attitudes on that that it's scary. Had. Crap."

Xander reached over and gripped her hand, briefly. "And, heavy sigh, the Initiative Take Two redesigned and rebuilt Project ADAM. Which, no, did _not_ end well. Got infected again, and MALCOLM manipulated the Sisterhood of Jhe demons and some of the old Council remnants into trying to open the Hellmouth – the old Council thought _they_ were trying to _close_ it."

"Which would have collapsed Cleveland into a crater," Rory said, shaking his head. "_Not_ that the Mistake by the Lake would be any great loss, but if you're gonna sink a city, do Chicago, Detroit, or D.C. for Chrissakes."

"Yup. Not much on long views, those idiots," Xander said, nodding. "Or short views, either. So supposedly, while the Initiative was fighting the old Council and the Sisterhood and getting wiped out, and we were trying to put a lid on both groups, ADAM opens the Hellmouth there under everyone's nose. Oops – cue stupid looks on everyone's faces. Except for the Sisterhood, who wanted it that way. MALCOLM gets from the Initiative's computers while all this is going in into the military systems at NORAD etc, and triggers WWIII. Boom! Cue Apocalypse now."

"And then this ADAM thing builds a cyborg demon-human hybrid army and starts taking over the rubble and wiping out humanity," Cordelia said, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, you've seen this episode, huh? Why didn't you stop me?"

"Oh, please," Cordelia said. "Anyone who's not a complete _idiot_ saw that one coming."

"Lets the Initiative out, then."

"Government," Cordelia and Rory said in unison, and started laughing.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up, fuzzballs," Xander said, shaking his head and grinning.

"I know, it's not funny," Rory said, "it's tragic. But sometimes all you can do with tragedy is laugh. Otherwise, you go nuts."

"Black humor, I know," Xander said. "Anywho, cue Judgment Day and what's left of humanity trying to survive and fight back in the rubble and the wilderness. Luckily, kinda, by 2013, neither we, nor the Chinese and Russians had that big a nuclear arsenal left, so MALCOLM and ADAM had to go about wiping out the bulk of humanity the old fashioned way: conventionally."

"Oh joy," Cordelia said. "Still, better than a nuclear fireball. You can _fight_ robots and demons."

"Exactly. Small blessing, but hey – small victories are better than none," Xander said. "Except for the time that MALCOLM created a demonic nanobot plague after he got into the remains of CDC Atlanta... created a horde of techno zombies that overran a major city."

"Yikes!" Cordelia's eyes widened, and she blanched.

"Yeah. The _Resistance_ ended up having to nuke Salt Lake City to contain it," Xander said, his expression grim. "And then invade Atlanta Center for Disease Control to get it out of MALCOLM's grasp. Bad scene all around... lemme tell ya: good times were _not_ had by all."

"I'll bet," Cordelia said, gripping his hand. "And, hey – yuck having to have all that in your head." Xander shrugged.

"So, some while later, we, or rather Morgan, 'cause we're like, Terminated by then," Cordelia made a face, and Xander shrugged again, "Discovered that MALCOLM had discovered something that would let him finish the job. And then, First Sergeant Beverly Sheridan, who by then was _Major_ Beverly Sheridan, and her Irregulars, discovered a couple of old government archives leading to something called Project Backstep, and Project Leaper. And... " Xander stopped dead, with his gaze distant and his mouth hanging open.

"Xander?" Cordelia said. She tried again, and then snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, several times. "Harris! Snap out of it, soldier, jeeze. You're scaring me... "

Xander closed his mouth and swallowed hard. He managed a wan smile and said, "You! I'm scaring _me_... uh, _that's_ what I named little Benjy's team for Trick or Treating, to make it fun, and get them all working together and taking care of each other... The First Sunnydale Irregulars, Tech-Comm, North American Resistance Command. Yikes."

"Yikes!" Cordelia echoed, her eyes going wide. "You mean... jeeze. Just like the freaking movies. Fucking Skynet created the resistance."

"Right," Xander said, looking like he wanted to bang his head on the table. "I gotta think, jeeze. Wow. Uh... those two old projects led to us finding out that MALCOLM had found hard copies and data, elsewhere, and was planning to send back search and destroy teams to eliminate us before we got started. Fuck me, _we_ started the whole Resistance and everything. Us and Ethan freaking Rayne. _Twice_."

"No Fate my well toned and nicely rounded ass, Harris," Cordelia said, shaking her head.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __3743 Midland Court__, Sheridan home, Sunnydale, Afternoon 1:35pm –_

"'Sup?" No longer First Sergeant Benjy, now Beverly Sheridan again, gave the girl at her front door an amazed look. "What're you doing here? Figured you'd be grounded until after New Year's, geeze."

"Naw," Misty waved a hand dismissively, grinning. "My folks weren't, like, thrilled, but they recognized that it wasn't our fault Harris 'flaked' and we had to spend all night getting back. Even if he didn't really, like, flake of course."

"Heh." Benjy nodded, looking the other girl over. Man, that black eye was turning into a nice shiner, even after Pooka's attentions. And that mouse under the other eye was gonna be a nice vivid greenish black in a few days... Otherwise, and barring a few visible scratches, Misty Pantine was freshly washed, styled, wearing a pair of designer jeans and a dark green tee that said, 'Designer's Do It in Fabric', and looking more or less back to normal. "Well, come on back. My Dad's making with fire in the yard – he's gonna burn meat on sticks later."

"Ah." Misty grinned and made the 'urgh urgh! More power!' joke from Tool Time. "Meat on sticks with fire! Tarzan cook!"

"Hah. Just don't repeat that later: he's already heard it from me, mom, and sis way too many times," Benjy said, laughing.

"No worries," Misty said, following Benjy back to the den. "Wouldn't believe it – I had to call Cyndi Teller to find out where you lived, jeeze. Didn't realize I didn't have that info. Where's your new guest? Out gathering sticks?"

"Naw, Jesse had to go debrief with his friends," Benjy said. "And hey: don't think you've ever been here before, so... "

"No worries. Found it," Misty said. "And, jeeze. You guys live about as far out southeast as you can get and still have town left."

"Hey," Benjy said, laughing. "Not like we're in the boonies or nuthin'. Just near the lower west edge of Miller's Wood. There's still lots of town east of the UCS campus."

"And you say so," Misty said. She unslung her school backpack and dug into a side pocket before slinging it onto the loveseat. "Hey, check this out."

"Wow." Benjy caught the item that Misty tossed her underhand before she sat down. "_You_ bought a _wrist rocket_?" Beverly blinked at her friend. "You?"

Misty laughed, shrugging. "Hey, I decided that Mrs. Summers had a bit of a point. Can't exactly go running around Sunnydale with a Winchester slung over my shoulder now that it's not so much of a war zone. So, I figured I'd go a bit lower key."

"Well," Bev said, "'Least it's not a Wally World special."

"Hah! Remembered your comments on those, so no," Misty said, grinning at her. "Man – the Mall was _closed_ today. So I had to slip over to Bernie's Hobbies while my mom was boutique hopping. Blew the rest of my allowance and birthday money, jeeze. Expensive. Whattaya think?"

"Heh." Bev looked the slingshot over with a critical eye. It wasn't a Barnett Magnum Pro like hers, but it'd do. Misty had somehow found and bought herself a Bear Magnum Hunter of solid stainless steel, with forward swept forks, a black neoprene and plastic grip with moulded finger groves, and a knurled nut-and-ball system for holding the triple surgical tubing rubbers. She folded down the forearm/wrist brace, and said, "Well, not bad. Want the crit? Or want me to snow ya?"

"Oh, please. There's no job like a snow job," Misty said. She tossed her hair, grinning, as Bev handed the sling back to her. "Please, crit away. That's why I brought it to you, jeeze – figured I could take it back if you said it sucked, and trade it in."

"Nah. Don't trade it in," Bev said, shaking her head, "It's a good tool. You at least got quality."

Misty shrugged. "Got the most expensive one they had since I couldn't find one like yours. Figured I couldn't go far wrong that way."

Benjy snickered. "You'd be surprised."

"Hey – I shop at an Olympic level, I'll have you know. Not an amateur, jeeze. Quality looks like quality, no matter what it costs. Crap just looks like more expensive crap."

"Too true," Bev said. "Ok, well... my sneering aside, not _all_ the Wal-Mart specials are _bad_, really. Their Polar Bears are decent, when you can find one. And at least you didn't get a Daisy Natural or a Crosman Pro. No flat banders, either." At Misty's raised eyebrow and blank look, Bev said, "The tubing ones are more powerful. Flat band cats – catapult, it's Brit slang – are beginner's toys. They're not serious. And on a Daisy or a Cros, the ball bearing and tube arrangement they use can slip out, and then you can lose teeth or an eye." Misty winced visibly, and Bev nodded. "Ah, yeah. Exactly. On the _Bear_, that locking nut and split collar arrangement they use means the tube may – _will_eventually_– _break at the fork, but the ball won't fly out. You'll just get popped on the cheek or forehead by the band and get a welt."

"Well, ouch again," Misty said, "But I can see where that'd beat no depth perception. Go on."

"Use shooting glasses, just in case," Bev said. "And the Bears are solid steel – that one is even heavier built than my Magnum Pro. They're like a tank. You can cold cock someone with that thing," she added, and Misty grinned. "Downside, that pouch will rip loose sooner or later, probably sooner, and you'll be left with bands flying one way, and holding the pouch with a stupid look."

"Hah." Misty let her eyes widen comically, and said, "Doh!"

"Yup. Like that," Bev said, laughing. "But it's not a big: every single rocket comes factory made with a crap pouch. It's the one place _everyone_ stints on." Bev's eyes narrowed, and she said, "Let me see you draw it. Here."

Reaching for her fanny pack on the coffee table, she took out a small hard plastic ball and handed it to Misty. "Drop this in, first."

Misty raised an eyebrow, but did as she suggested, and, holding the wrist rocket at arms length, stuck her tongue out the corner or her mouth and pulled back on the pouch –

– About six or seven inches. Bev grinned at her.

"Don't look at me in that tone of voice, brat," Misty said, scowling. "Jeeze – you make it look _easy_, sheesh."

"Hey," Beverly said, snickering, "Don't forget: I've been doing this for four and a half _years_ almost since I was seven and I got my first TruShot for my birthday. You shoot every single day for that long, and you'll develop wrist and forearm muscle like wire cable, too, and a grip you won't _believe_." Cocking her head, she eyed the other girl, and said, "I know you did, uh, gymnastics? You do triple somersaults on your first day?"

"No. And point taken, darn it," Misty said, sighing. "Guess I just got spoiled using Calamity's rifle – that came easy right from the first."

"Yeah." Bev nodded. "I think that had some magic in the guns, too, that affected you and Carlo. Ok, you got the box and all the stuff that came with it?"

Misty nodded, and dug it out of her pack. "Blister pack, jeeze. Had to practically get our rottweiler to chew it open. Inside the box – like they wanted to make real sure you couldn't ever get at it after you got home. Here," she handed the box over.

"Cool," Bev said, opening the box, and starting to rummage through the sliced apart blister pack and other assorted stuff. "Ok. I've still got the TruShot. I'll let you take it for awhile. It's lighter and you can practice with it and get some wrist, hand, and forearm strength built up. And a handful of the plastic balls... "

"Why those?" Misty said.

"Gives you something to grip so you can practice your draw without shooting, and, if your fingers do slip, you won't put a hole in your dad's TV or through your cat."

"Heh. Mister Ragsdale would never forgive me. Dad _might_."

"Unless there was a football game that night, yeah," Bev said, grinning. "The cat... I'm afraid after that, Moo Goo Gai Pan would be your only option."

"Cat, it's the _other_ white meat," Misty intoned, and they both broke up laughing. "Sick, but still funny."

"I think our senses of humor are still about six," Bev said, nodding. "And I've noticed that you have an inner Klingon, too. Ok, here's the second issue: they set it up for full draw weight in the box," Bev held up a spare pouch with two lighter bands. "C'mon, follow me to the garage."

"Yeah, designed for a gorilla, and they sold it to a monkey," Misty said, laughing. "Ook ook."

A short while later, Misty was perched on a second stool by the work bench watching curiously, as Bev took down a small tool kit before slipping onto the other one. Opening a drawer, Bev started taking out a strip of what looked like heavy duty pebbled and dimpled rubber, some punches, a utility knife, a rubber mallet, and a small plastic fishing lure box of metal rings.

"Ok, let me wash up if we're going to do surgery, Hawkeye," Misty said.

"Hah hah. You funny," Bev said, grinning. "But you're close. Ok, first thing... " She eyed the knurled nut at the bottom, took a crescent wrench, slipped a bit of thin soft leather into the jaws, and loosened the nuts holding the fold up wrist brace in position. "Ok, now," Bev handed the slingshot back, and continued, "Go ahead and grip it and let me have your arm for a minute."

Misty nodded, and slipped into the brace, gripping the sling stock. "Ok, but give it back. I've gotten attached."

"Didn't your mom tell you that would happen if you fed 'em after they followed you home?" Bev said, bending Misty's wrist slightly and pulling the back end back a bit, giving it a critical look. She repeated the process again, twice, in smaller and smaller increments, and said, "Ok, now: try a draw again."

"_She_ said not to feed 'em after midnight." Misty did so as Bev slid off the stool and stood to one side, watching critically. After a couple of practice pulls, she nodded.

"Ok, don't _move_," Beverly said. "Hold that pose."

Grabbing the wrench, she held Misty's fist with one hand while she quickly tightened the bottom nut with the wrench. Afterward, Bev took the sling back and slipped back onto the stool again.

"Ok, so... " Misty raised her eyebrows, and watched while Beverly torqued down the retaining nut tightly. "The adjustment? And the leather piece?"

"The chamois keeps the wrench from scratching the finish," Bev said. "And the wrist brace helps the draw as well as the stability when it's at the proper length for your forearm."

"Ah."

As Misty watched with an expression of increasing curiosity, Beverly quickly stripped out the retaining nuts holding the rubbers in, and tossed the current ones aside onto the work bench surface. Opening another drawer, she took out a coil of heavy duty black surgical quality tubing, and a smaller coil of even heavier and thicker tubing. Next came out another fishing lure box, which produced a set of ball bearings somewhat smaller than the ones she used for ammo.

"I'm gonna assume you know what you're doing," Misty said, looking mystified, "On account of I know you do. What _are_ you doing, though?"

"Setting you up for the next three to six months, is what," Bev said, a bit absently. She then quickly cut ten lengths of tubing to length by eye, and two lengths of the heavier tubing. Next she picked up the thick strip of pebbled rubber, a large oval cookie cutter punch, and the mallet, and, on a pad of thick rubber, quickly stamped out three slightly rounded squares just a bit bigger than the pouch on the bands she'd tossed. After which, she took a round punch and punched an appropriate amount of holes in each new pouch. "Hokay, while I'm doing this, reach up and take down that Bunsen up on that shelf," Bev told Misty. "Looks kinda like a metal candle with a base and knobs?"

"Got it," Misty said, grabbing the appropriate piece of gear. "And the metal rings are?" She watched as Benjy set grommets in all of the holes she'd punched.

"Grommets," Bev said. "Like in the edge of a tent or tarp? They help to keep the tubes from tearing out through the edges of the pouch so fast. And this is some heavy duty synthetic I cut from a heavy wetsuit that managed to get sliced open on some coral. I got pouches for the next century or so." She smirked at the other girl, continuing to work.

"Heh. That outta do it," Misty said, nodding, as she continued to watch. "Where did you learn how to do all this, anyway?"

Hooking the burner up to a small bottle of propane, Beverly next took out a pair of small tongs, a ball bearing three increments larger than the ones she used for ammo, and held the stainless steel ball into the flame of the now lit Bunsen burner. "Some from my dad. Mostly from about four years of experimenting. Take apart enough snapped bands and enough ripped pouches over the years and examine them, you start figuring out how to make 'em better than factory."

"_You_ might," Misty said, shaking her head.

Beverly shrugged. She took the now hot bearing and slipped it and one of the pouch cuttings into the hollowed out halves of a hardwood block, and clamped that lightly into a nearby vise. Then she repeated the process twice more. Afterward, she made some quick small cuts in the tubing with the utility knife, and began the laborious process of threading the tubing through the grommets and then back through itself properly.

"Once you get some grip strength, I'll show you how to do this," Bev said. "But for now, it's not real easy... And moulding the pouch like that helps it to cup the ammo properly without slipping. Ok. After I get this worked almost all the way back, I'll apply some bonding epoxy and finish, and then a bit more to the outer surface and wrap it. That'll join and reinforce it, but the stuff I use won't melt the surgical tubing and weaken it. Just surface meld it together."

"Uh huh. And you say so," Misty said.

Bev smirked at her, and said, "I do at that. Then I'll work the bearings in and wrap _them_. And then I'll reassemble it, with the heavy single here, and we'll go out back and shoot a bit."

"Ok," Misty said, nodding.

"So, why the interest in the wrist rocket?" Beverly said, arching an eyebrow at the other girl. "Figured you'd probably want to... " she shrugged and trailed off.

"Go back to being a ditzy clothes hanger?" Mist said, arching her eyebrows back. She grinned. "Like I don't know what you used to think about me, Benj? Don't think I didn't give it serious thought," she said. "But the thing is, I don't think it's the type of thing you _can_ go back from. That was... way too intense."

"That it was," Bev said, nodding. She started working the ball bearings into the other ends of the tubes.

"Huh. So what's that tool?" Misty asked, pointing at the little tapered, hollow punch looking thing Bev was using to open up the tube and start the bearing.

"A hollow punch my dad made out of some thick walled brass tubing on the bench grinder," Benjy said. "You can get 'em started without one, but it's a serious pain."

"Ok... now that's ingenious," Misty said.

"A lot of doing stuff is having the right tools, or being able to make 'em," Bev said. Misty nodded.

"My dad likes working on the car, and that's as workshoppy as he gets," Misty said. "I have the feeling that it isn't like that for you – you've always been kinda like that, right?"

"Huh." Bev thought about that for a bit, starting another ball bearing while she did so. "Maybe. I changed a lot too, last night, but maybe not as drastic as you, and Dawn, and Carlo."

Misty nodded. "Kinda what I thought."

"Well, for one thing," Bev said, "I _probably_ wouldn't have thrown Hatter kid off the roof earlier in the night _before_ all that."

"Heh. 'Learn to fly, jerk!'" Misty said, laughing. "Shoulda seen Dawn's face, _man_." Misty shook her head. "And then Dawnie _Summers_ stalking up and sticking her chin out and her nose into Peter Prick's face and telling him off like that, wow," Misty said. "What was it that Bucky called that?"

"Bad ass boast," Bev said, starting to grin. "It's when you thump your chest like a pair of male gorillas posturing."

"And give the victory cry of the mangani," Misty said. Bev stared at her, and Misty rolled her eyes. "Yeah yeah. I've read the Burroughs' books. Preferred the John Carter stuff. Except that it wasn't really a boast. We really _did_ all that stuff, and then we did _just_ what you and Dawn said we would, there at the end."

Bev nodded. "What really makes it bad ass is when it's _not_ a _boast_. Just plain fact."

"Uh huh. Thought you were gonna give up for a long minute there at the end," Misty said, nodding. "And then your face just changed, suddenly, and your back snapped straight, and, pow! And, hey – I thought you said flat bands were beginner's toys?"

"Yeah, well, you're a beginner," Bev said, as she took out an already made pouch with a pair of pair of doubled, heavy flat elastics strung through the grommets already, and folded a bearing into one end. "I'll finish the others later after we eat – these two will get you started and keep you going for awhile." Pausing thoughtfully, she shrugged and said, "_Almost_ did. Something wouldn't let me. We'd already paid too much and lost too much by then."

"Uh huh. We had." Misty said, nodding. Bev started to wrap the folded bearing as she watched.

"What I thought," Bev said. "Only there wasn't so much thought involved, really, at that point." Shaking her head, Bev looked at Misty and said, "I thought you were toast when that cat gal jumped on you."

"Hah. One thing you learn doing gymnastics: you can do a lot of things in mid leap," Misty said, grinning, "But dodging isn't one of 'em. Figured meeting her half way and taking the wind out of her sails was better than waiting for her to land and shred me. Except not so much with the conscious thought."

"Yup. You looked kinda like Errol Flynn," Benjy said.

"Ok, so yeah, I figure a bunch of the crew will do just that, put it behind them and move on," Misty said. "But 'Kat and the others there _can't_. And I'm pretty sure that Johnny and the others who kept their soldier stuff _won't_. So... like it or not, we're still the Irregulars, and you're still First Sergeant Benjy."

Beverly stared at the other girl, her fingers pausing. After a long minute, she smiled slightly and shook her head, and her fingers went back to working on the other bearing. "A First Sergeant without a high command, no mission, and no unit. And a sniper who can't carry her rifle."

"Why I got that thing," Mist said, looking at her seriously. "And you have about a heavy squad, unless I miss my guess. And a full scout unit, and a second in command. Or, was your dad joking in that speech he made?"

Beverly stopped again, and looked at Misty. "My dad doesn't joke on things like that, Misty."

"So there you go," Misty said. "You're stuck with us. And if you're _really_ dead set against the idea, I'll talk to Cap." Misty shrugged. "Because I can't go back, and neither can some of the others. It's all _your_ fault, jerkette,"

Shaking her head, Beverly said, "I think it's at least partly that other guy's." She paused for a long time, thinking as she worked. Finally, she nodded. "Me, Jesse, and my mom and dad were talking this morning about trying to set up a memorial thing for Cagney and the others, if they're interested. We'll talk to them all then and see what they say."

"Works for me," Misty said, nodding. "Finish up, and lets go put some holes in things."

* * *

.


	6. For We Have Seen the Shadows Coming -

**Chapter Forty-one: For We Have Seen the Shadows Coming, Like a Thousand Nights Before...**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, Afternoon 3:35pm –_

"Eww," Xander said, scowling at the open box on the work room floor. "Man, Rory – this stuff needs to be tossed. Or better: blown the hell up from a long, _long_ safe distance away from it. Yeesh."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Rory said. "Been awhile since I had any reason to go into the storage shed lockers and take inventory. Haven't been clearing many rock piles lately."

Cordelia frowned at them, and looked down into the box. Ok, longish box with a handful of what looked like your stereotypical long red cylinders. She couldn't see what they were talking about that was making them so nervous looking...

"Ok, dweeb, like, I know I'm an amateur at this, so... " Cordelia said, "What the heck are you two babbling about?"

Xander scowled again, and then grinned at her lopsidedly. Pointing at the box, he said, "Dynamite."

Cordelia nodded, rolling her eyes. "Doh! I figured that much out."

Bending over, Xander reached into the box and wiped off a bit of what looked like condensation off of one of the red sticks. "_Sweaty_ dynamite," he said, straightening. Glancing around, he flicked his finger, sending droplets off into an empty corner of the workshop –

– there was suddenly a loud, sharp bang! from that corner and Cordelia gave a little shriek and jumped about two feet straight up.

"Jeeze... "

"Uh, yeah," Xander said, nodding. "See, dynamite is basically sawdust soaked in nitro. So when it gets old it destabilizes and sweats... "

"And when it sweats," Rory said, "It sweats _nitroglycerin_."

"Yeow!" Cordelia said, her eyes wide. She backed hastily _away_ from the box. "Jeeze, get that stuff _away_ from me."

"Good plan," Xander said, nodding and looking serious. "_Very_ carefully."

"The TNT is stable, though. Hope there's enough for what you need." Rory nodded, closing the box back up and carefully picking it up. "I'll take this back out, and dispose of it properly as soon as I can."

They both watched a bit edgily as he slowly left the room carrying the box.

"Ok, so... what are we going to be doing here?" Cordelia said, after breathing a heavy sigh. "You've been hinting, you and Hicks before that, at your 'toys', and now I'm curious."

"Ok," Xander said. He pointed at the stuff arrayed on and by the work tables, and the steel prep table next to the workshop's stove. "Heavy PVC pipe, aluminum tubing, electrical stuff and batteries, some of Rory's old electronic junk, all of Rory's black powder, some blasting caps, some of the model rocket stuff you and Hicks grabbed from Wally-World – which I'm really surprised they had – the two pay-as-you-go Nokia brick phones and small walky talkies... and a bunch of assorted household chemicals and some of Rory's supply. Plus a few funnels and assorted odds and ends of plumbing crap."

"Right," Cordelia said. "Either you're planning to unclog a sink the hard way, or you're gonna build a plumbing nightmare that you'd have to pay the Sunnydale building inspectors a _ton_ of money to get by with."

"Snicker. Close," Xander said, smirking. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against a shelf and raised his eyebrows at her. "It's not quite done the way that they had Reese do it in the movie, but chemicals of various types in the proper proportions really can be used to cook up plastique – plastic explosives. Which are moldable and _shapeable_, like silly putty. Different ones mixed right make thermite, which _burns_. Burns _anything_. Black powder burns explosively, and smokeless powder just burns. _Fast_. Ammonium perchlorate, potassium nitrate, aluminum powder, and a binder agent mixed properly does also, in a controlled like fashion. And TNT blows up real good, whether in sticks or taken apart and repacked properly." Xander grinned at her expression, and continued, "So, you put 'em all together and they probably won't spell 'Mother', but they _will_ add up to a big, close range hobby rocket with a shaped charge warhead."

Cordelia raised an eyebrow, and said, "Which you said before, and I'm still without clue."

Xander nodded. "I'm getting there. Basically, a shaped charge is a formed explosive that when it goes off, forms a narrow really hot jet of plasma that burns through stuff. All _sorts_ of stuff."

"Like, oh, say, the hard outer shell on a Terminator to let you get to the chewy center?" Cordelia said, starting to grin.

"You got it," Xander said, grinning back. "In theory, anyway."

"And of course, there _is_ no difference between theory and practice," Cordelia said, "Except when in practice there is."

"Right," Xander said, nodding. "So we better hope I did a _real_ good job of designing Hicks to know what the hell he was doing, and that my memories of his skills and knowledge base are _accurate_."

"Ok, so what are you two cooking up now?" Rory said, reentering the workshop.

"We're gonna bake a cake, Unca Rory!" Xander said in a bright, cheerful voice. "While you're loading up lots a six hundred grain solids for us."

"I think I preferred _sir_," Rory said, laughing.

"Sorry sir. Smart ass mode disengaged, sir," Xander said, grinning at him. Cordelia thumped him one, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, yeah. Like that'll ever happen," she said. "Ok, so what happens if theory and practice don't mesh?"

"Then if we're real lucky, we won't have to worry about the Larry-bot no more," Xander said, "'Cause we'll be looking down at him from the afterlife and smirking." Cordelia made a face, and Xander snickered, and added, "And if we're less lucky, we get to figure out if we're as good at improvising as Linda Hamilton was."

"Oh, gee. Now I'm not sure which result to hope for," Cordelia said.

"Hope Xan can do this right and it works so you won't need either plan B or C," Rory suggested.

"Good idea," Xander said, nodding. "Anyway, the more serious answer is: short range launched shaped charges, and maybe even shaped charge on a steek for poking things with. And thermite and TNT for a few high explosive incendiary warheads, just for good measure." Rory nodded back, and Xander grinned at him, and added, "And a few good old fashioned pipe bombs just because you can _never_ have enough really big M-80's to play with."

Cordelia sighed. "Boys and their toys. So... and the assorted electronics crap and the cheap phones and not cheaper walkie talkies?"

"Circuit boards and other suchlike odds and ends," Xander said. "Because, not being James Cameron, I don't want to reach up and stick a pipe bomb into the Larry-bot from right next to him like Kyle Reese did. Looks really cool and brave in the movies, but it's kinda hard on your time traveler."

"Improvised remote detonator?" Rory said. "Good plan."

"Yeah. There's brave, and then there's desperate and stupid," Cordelia said. "Let's try and avoid getting quite _that_ desperate, m'kay? 'Cause Willow will skin me alive if I get you blowed up."

"Can't have that," Xander said. "Ok, so... let's get _busy_."

"Oh no," Cordelia said, holding up a hand in a stop gesture. "We're so _not_ doing the whole 'putting a resistance hero in the oven thing', remember? Let's make some explosives instead."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __3743 Midland Court__, Sheridan home, Sunnydale, Afternoon __3__:35pm –_

"Whoa," Misty said, looking up. "That is really cool. And kinda impressive, too."

That was a split level, multi-room and decked tree house built into a huge, seriously tall, spreading black walnut tree and its two closest and almost as big nearest neighbors. Rope bridges and walkways connected the three sections, and a rope ladder led up about twelve feet to a railed deck from which a staircase led up to the lowest and nearest tree house.

The central black walnut tree was so large that it rose nearly thirty feet before its first major branching caused it to fork out and spread widely and suddenly. The pecan and the oak next to it, forming a rough, shallow triangle, didn't rise nearly as high before branching out, but were just as broad, and nearly as tall.

"Scratch the 'kinda' and you'll pretty well have it," Beverly said, grinning. Kitty Kat and Chessie nodded enthusiastically, looking up with wide eyes.

They were about a quarter of a mile back into Miller's Wood from the Sheridan's back yard, and in a small clearing surrounding the trio of trees. Mrs. Summers had called and then dropped off the two cat girls and Pooka Bell prior to taking the other three girls shopping for clothes and necessities.

Benjy didn't blame her: having 'Kat and Chessie along would have been bound to get her talked about. But man – what a thing to have videos of. Benjy grinned to herself at the thought.

"All clear First Sergeant Major Chief," Pooka Bell said, zooming down and coming to a hover in front of them.

"Good work, Pook," Benjy said, grinning. "Stand down now, 'K?" Pooka nodded and zipped over to sit on Bev's shoulder.

"Didn't think you had trees like that in SoCal, outside of the Sequoia national Forest, jeeze," Misty said. "Where'd that thing come from?"

"Not sure about the trees," Bev said, shrugging. "Been here lots longer than we have. But the tree house... my dad and a few of the other neighborhood dads built it over the course of about a year for my older sis and my brother when they were around eight and ten. And their friends. I kind of inherited it."

"Wow. You could _live_ in that thing," Misty said.

"You seriously could," Bev said. "There's even a generator in the little bitty house at the bottom, by the base of that oak tree. It's where I was thinking of putting 'Kat and the others until Dawn talked Mrs. Summers into taking them in."

"Oh?" Misty raised her eyebrows. "How were you gonna feed 'em?"

"That part I hadn't worked out yet," Bev said, shrugging.

"Need food," 'Kat said. Chessie nodded. 'Kat and Chessie had wolfed out on bar-be-que, and Beverly's mom had gotten a thoughtful look and ordered out for an extra-large pizza for Pooka Bell...

"Well, at least you guys woulda have had enough room," Misty said. "It's like the Tarzan house on the old TV show."

Beverly nodded. "C'mon, let's check the rope ladder, and then we can go up and see if the elevator still works."

"Elevator?" Misty shook her head, following Bev to the base of the pecan tree. 'Kat and Chessie gave the ladder a disdainful look, disregarded it, and swarmed up the tree trunk using claws. Misty and Bev watched them go, shaking their heads in amazement as the pair vanished inside of the first platform level.

"Yeah. For hauling things up to the first platform," Beverly said. She grabbed the ladder and gave it a good couple of yanks before chinning herself on it and letting her body weight swing from it. It creaked but held, and she let go and dropped the two feet back down.

"Figured if you were serious about doing this," Bev said, "Then we're gonna need a headquarters for the Irregulars."

"That'd do it," Misty said. She looked around them, adding, "Close to home, but kinda remote, too."

"Yeah. 'Bout another quarter mile thataway is Miller Pond where I go and plink at dragonflies with my wrist rocket," Bev said.

"_Dragonflies_?" Misty blinked.

"Yeah." Beverly grinned at her. "That's what I do for moving target practice. I shoot dragonflies, wasps, and hornets out of the air."

"Jeeze," Misty said, rolling her eyes. "I give up. I'm going back to my rifle." Shaking her head, she said, "Well, let's go up and inspect the barracks, Sarge."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Mears Residence, 2417 __Guava__ Drive, Sunnydale, __Afternoon 3:35pm –_

"Mom! I'm _fine_! I'll get something to eat later, all right?" Warren Mears called up through the intercom by the basement door of his parents home.

"Your parental units are not going to come down here to check on you?" Seven said, frowning.

"Oh, naw," Warren said, waving negligently toward the stairwell door. "I'm holed up down here all weekend sometimes without coming up. They're used to it. 'Sides – the door leading to the house is always locked. They've given up on expecting me to open it, like, as of about five years ago."

He turned back to the dual twenty-two inch monitors on his Tri-Star DEC Alpha workstation, frowning at the CAD diagram taking shape there.

"As you say," Seven said. "Still, I believe that I should replace my garments in the event that you are in error."

"Ughn, yeah," Warren grunted a bit absently. Seven's words registered on him belatedly, and he jerked his gaze from the monitor, swiveling his chair so he could soak up one last view of that body before she covered it up. "Uh, if you have to."

"Yes," Seven said, smirking at him as she bent to pick up her bodysuit. "We can resume copulation activities later, and then you can stare and drool at me again."

"Ok, works for me," Warren said, grinning. Wow. A girl that was not only freaking _brilliant_, but also gorgeous, and as enthusiastic about sex as any horny nerd. And who bore a distinct resemblance to a seventeen year old Jeri Ryan, to boot...

He was in sheer heaven, which was ironic seeing as how he was a confirmed atheist.

"Ok, so... alternating or direct current?" Warren said, once Seven had pulled the coverall over her breasts.

"Phase modulated," Seven said. Dressed again, she returned to her seat in front of his old NextStar that he'd jiggered to run NT as well as Next and OS/2, and networked into his growing collection of new and obsolescent computer equipment and servers.

They were still holed up down in Warren's lab in his parent's basement. _Other_ geeks had lairs, or basement caves. He, Warren Mears, had a Laboratory where he did _real_ work. Complete with a full electronics workshop, and an extensive array of tools and shelves and shelves of parts.

Since they'd woken up around twelve or so, the only time he'd ventured out was to grab a tray of sandwiches and some two liter cokes to bring downstairs. Heck, after _getting_ here last night, they hadn't left off _sex_ until almost dawn...

"Hmm," he said, frowning at his screen. He clicked to accept the file that Seven shot to him from her machine, opened it in an inset window, and scowled at it as well.

"Can you not achieve that with the technological capability of this world?" Seven asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Well, yeah," Warren said. "All of the battle here is knowing it can be done, and having someone like you who knows how to do the theory and the practice." He shook his head, adding, "But the problem is that I don't have a lot of the components we'll need."

"Hrmm." Seven frowned down at her screen. "I have simplified the design parameters to the barest minimum required already."

"Do you absolutely have to have a regeneration module, still?" Warren asked. "I was never really clear on that in later seasons of Voyager."

"Yes. I can do without one for some time, but after a point, I will begin to experience degradation of my remaining implants," Seven said.

"Huh. Problem is that the components I don't have are gonna be expensive," Warren said. "And that kind of money I'm not sure I can fool my dad into forking over."

"Then we shall have to determine a means of acquiring funding," Seven said.

"Well... there's always my hidden camera and real teen porn marketing idea," Warren said, thoughtfully.

"I must admit that I do not much care for that concept," Seven said, frowning at him. "It seems... both degrading and dishonest."

To be honest, now that he'd actually had _sex_, and had a willing partner that was better looking than eighty percent of the cheerleaders and drill team at Sunnydale High School, with the exception of Cordelia Chase and a few others, Warren was starting to find the idea a bit distasteful himself. Not that looking at nude cheerleaders would bother him, with or without their knowing about it... but the idea of feeding the images to greasy perverts wasn't sitting quite as well any more.

Must be some of Dr. Soong's influence, he figured.

"Yeah, me either," Warren said, sighing. Reluctantly, he let the concept go. "But we'll still need funding."

"Hmm. Then let us examine and inventory what you do have to work with, and determine a marketable and patentable design based within those parameters," Seven said, nodding. "You are a brilliant man, even if you are no longer Dr. Soong. The least of your designs are beyond current capabilities here, and would command a high price from the proper choice of investment speculators."

"Huh." Warren began nodding. She was right... he hadn't ever really thought about taking some of his ideas into legitimate markets before. Only of using them for his own pleasure and gratification. But there were vast, as yet untapped markets for robotics and cybernetics – untapped because, honestly, the capabilities hadn't been _invented_ yet.

Profitable markets.

"You know," Warren said, "Leaving the voyeuristic porn alone, 'cause hey, I'm not really enthused there either, any more... there's still a huge market for, uh, entertainment, uh, toys."

"You are speaking of sexual gratification robotic devices, are you not," Seven said, raising an eyebrow and smirking at him.

"Well, yeah," Warren said. He shrugged, "It's not like profiting off of real girls against their wills. And rich guys – and _women__ – _would pay a lot for, uh, perfect partners built to their specifications."

"True," Seven said, nodding. "However, that may be something best left for a future venture. For the moment, we need more immediately attainable options."

"Ok," Warren said. He swiveled his chair around to face her, and leaned forward. "Shoot. Start throwing ideas and options at me, and I'll bounce them back and we'll see what we come up with."

Nodding, Seven leaned forward as well, and they began to brainstorm.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Pirate Ship Windover, somewhere in the seas of the Never-After, __Evening__: sometime indeterminate –_

Captain Ezekiel Hook grinned at his First Mate, the Lady Joy, as the two of them looked out across their new command. It had been a long rest of the night and long day of hard work getting the Bloodfin and the Windover to the rendezvous point with the rest of the fleet, but now it was done. Finally, they'd met up and hove to with the others of Admiral Landlorn's command. Darkness had just fallen again, and he, Joy, and their crew were just now finishing transferring over from the Bloodfin to relieve Blackjack Tar and his Prize crewmen.

He never had made it back to his quarters aboard the Bloodfin, working long hours into the day to make ready for the transfer of command.

"Sweet ship, Senior Captain," Joy said, her eyes sweeping the decks from the vantage point of the quarterdeck.

"Aye, that she is," Hook said, nodding. His gaze went to the crewmen who were escorting the last of the transferred crew from Bloodfin, the collection of new cabin and scullery urchins – and a small few others.

The blonde Viking lass, whose name he'd still not learned, and the curvaceous red-gold devil gal, whose name he couldn't pronounce, came to a halt before the quarterdeck. Neither cruelly nor roughly, the devil girl pushed forward the two prisoners she and her companion were escorting.

"They insist on speaking to you, Cap'n," Devil Girl said, rolling her eyes.

"Nothing for it, lass," Hook said. "Crew, even former crew, have a right to petition their officers."

The Viking gal said something Scandinavian sounding and struck first Saucy Morgan and then the former Pirate Elise behind the knees with her scabbarded sword as Devil Girl pushed them down. They went to their knees, looking up at him and Joy with horror struck expressions.

Joy smirked down at them, stepping back a bit to let Hook have the center stage here.

"Chad!" Morgan said, her eyes huge. "There's a mistake! Something _horrible's_ happened here – you've got to let us go and we've all got to escape from here!"

"Nay, Lass," Ezekiel Hook said, his tone not unkind. "Nay mistake. The only error it is that I'm seeing is your calling me by a name that's not my own."

"But – you're Chad _Everette_, a Sunnydale High School student," Elsie said, her tone desperate. "Like us. You- you're _not_ some _pirate_. That was just a costume! For last night!"

"Please, Chad," Morgan said. "You've _got_ to listen to us. We don't _belong_ here."

"Aye, 'tis true and that is," Hook said, smirking. "Ye belong on the crew. And as soon as ye learn and master yer new duties to me satisfaction, the sooner ye'll earn yer boots and swords back." He shook his head, adding, "As to the rest... I am Senior Captain Ezekiel Hook, late of the Bloodfin's complement and now Commander of the Black Fleet Pirate vessel Windover."

"No, Chad," Morgan said, shaking her head a bit dully. "You're Chad Everette, a _football_ player. And we're Junior Varsity _cheerleaders_ from _Sunnydale_."

Sighing, Hook shook his head again. "A shame it is that ye've turned out to be Changelings, but it happens to a few every time, or so I'm given to understand. It'll make it nigh impossible for ye to be crew again, but not unheard of."

"You're serious about this," Elise said, fear slowly turning to terror in her eyes, "You _raped_ us all last night while we were all... under whatever it was. And now you- you're going to... "

"Make chamber wenches and bed warmers of you both for as long as it suits his fancy?" Joy suggested, laughing. "Of course."

"Noooo... "

"Aye," Hook said. "We have little use for changelings, but for such as yerself, there's always _some_ use to be had."

Morgan began to say something else, but at Joy's slight head shake, the Viking girl cuffed her sharply and she subsided. Elise glanced fearfully back and up at the Devil Girl.

Joy sighed, and said, "Apply yourselves to your new position, and maybe you'll _earn_ favor. Even as changelings."

"Orders, Captain?" Devil Girl asked.

"Take them to their new quartering by my cabin," Hook said. "I'll send ye to bring them when it is rested enough for proper sportin', I am."

"Aye," Devil Girl said, hauling Elise up onto her feet while the warrior girl did the same to Morgan. "Will you be wanting the two of us to report for _special_ orders later?" she said, jerking her head to the Viking girl, and running her tongue over her lips lasciviously.

"Aye, that I will. Now off with ye."

Hook and Joy watched, grinning, as the protesting Morgan and Elise were led off.

Neither of them noticed the small, battered and cold eyed figure wearing black that had paused to watch the little tableau, not even when it was given a rough shove by Pirate Mitch, the former Mitch Fargo and herded below after the rest of the scullery crew.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, __Evening__5__:30pm –_

"Ok, so, basically, there I am, just walking in through my front door," Buffy said, waving her hands, "And suddenly, there's this green glowing _pixie_ with two little eeny weenie swords going 'halt and identify!' at me."

Standing on the steps with Jesse and Aura, Willow giggled at Buffy's animated description. Buffy grinned at her, and continued. "So, I said, 'hey, I'm a Buffy and I _live_ here,' and start to push past her." Pausing for dramatic effect, she then added, "And _then_ she lunges in and jabs me _right_ in the freaking _nose_ with her _sword_, dammit!"

"Ow," Aura said, laughing.

"Yup." Buffy snickered, and said, "And then I shout for mom and look past her, and there's these two little cat girls and a little _devil_ girl wearing Dawn's spare pajamas in the hall doorway, yawning at me. So I yell, '_demon_!' and go charging in, and then _everything_ comes unglued on me."

"Oh, having seen 'Kat, Chessie, and Devila in action, I can only imagine," Aura said, starting to grin from ear to ear.

"Heh. Wish someone woulda warned me," Buffy said, grinning back. "So, there I am with my slay ready and then freaking Dawn comes barreling out and throws herself in between me and them yelling 'Buffy you're _scaring_ them!' at me. And so I nearly break in two putting on the brakes, right? 'Cause brat or not, Mom would have a _cow_ if I slayed Dawnie. And then the Devil girl and gray spotted cat girl freaking disappear. Thin air, no foolin'."

"Yup. Seen this trick, only in reverse," Aura said, nodding.

"And I'm standing there all 'Whut? Whut?' and then there's this tap on my shoulder from behind and a purring voice sez in my freaking _ear_, 'Hi there!' all bright and chipper like," Buffy said, her hands energetically punctuating every syllable.

"Oh, gods, can't breathe, stop..." Willow gasped out, holding onto Jesse and laughing so hard her face was purple. Jesse wasn't in much better shape, nor was Jenny Calendar.

"I'm supposing from what you told us earlier, Buffy," Giles said, chuckling, "That you did not end up slaying them."

"No. Dawn and mom wouldn't let me," Buffy said, sticking her lower lip out.

"Probably just as well," Angel said. It had just gotten dark enough for him to go outside with them without turning into vampire flambé. Now they were all standing around by the front of the school, still trading stories from late last night.

"Yeah," Ms. Calendar said. "You'd probably have felt horrible once you found out what was going on."

"Not at that moment, no," Buffy said, shaking her head. "So, anyway, I go BWAH! And jump out of my _skin_, and come down and nearly _brain_ myself on the coffee table, and another little voice sez 'Hey there!' right in my _other_ ear."

"I can see it now," Jesse said. "Don't tell me, lemme guess..."

"Yup. BWAH! _Again_, only _this_ time I land almost on gray kitty girl," Buffy said, snickering. "And freaking _Dawn_ and the black kitty girl are on the floor holding onto each other and laughing themselves sick fit to bust, and gray kitty girl sez, 'Oh, that just _never_ gets old! She's funny!'"

"Oh, gods..." Willow said again, tears starting to trickle out from under her eyelids.

"And then _mom_ comes out and sez, 'Buffy! Stop scaring them!' like _I'm_ the bad guy," Buffy said, rolling her eyes.

"Well, _I'm_ glad you didn't slay 'em anyway," Aura said, giggling.

"Me not so sure," Buffy said, "Considering that Chessie and little Devil Girl scared me out of about ten years growth popping up and tapping me on the shoulder from behind me. And I can't _afford_ to lose any growth – Dawn'll be _taller_ than me before long."

"Yeah, they do that," Aura said, snickering. "And 'Kat can step into and out of shadows the size of Jesse's shoe, just about."

"Tell me!" Buffy said, shaking her head and laughing.

"Oh gods," Willow said, finally managing to get some breath back. "So, what's going on with them now?"

"Oh, they're fine, Will," Buffy said, "Anyway, Mom was taking them all out shopping for clothes this afternoon, after she dropped 'Kat, Chessie, and Pooka off at the Sheridan's. I almost bailed on you guys to go with and watch that one. Bet that was gonna be a _total_ zoo."

"She and Dawn took Devila with them?" Aura asked.

"Yup. They figured she could pass wearing one of Dawnie's hats, as long as the tail was hidden," Buffy said, grinning.

"So, you're adopting the whole crew?" Jesse said.

"Looks like," Buffy said, rolling her eyes. "Mom's already talking about getting a mini-van as a second car. Besides, they can't go back home, can't dump 'em on the street, and they _really_ can't fit in anywhere else. And no _way_ are we letting there be any chance of them getting hauled off to some laboratory."

"Oh, those poor parents," Jenny Calendar said. "Not ever knowing what happened is going to be so rough for them."

Jesse nodded, and Buffy gave him a sympathetic look.

"Gods," Willow said. "I can just imagine."

"So, what's next?" Buffy said, looking at the others. "Considering we're about as post slayage debriefed as we can get now."

"Well, I'm planning on going by the hospital to see Kendra," Aura said, "And then get something to eat before dropping Jesse off at the Sheridan house. You guys want to come with?"

Willow glared slightly at the casual reminder of Aura and Jesse, and then brightened visibly. "Oh yeah! Seriously would like to see if Kendra's going to be ok." Buffy nodded.

"I'll have to go get my car," Angel said, "And then I can join you all there."

"Don't forget to get in touch with Kendra's Watcher, Mr. Giles," Aura said. "I promised her."

"Of course," Giles said, nodding. "I'll continue trying until there's a response at the number the Council gave me for him. It is the least I can do."

"Do that, _Giles_," a rough, growling voice came from above and behind the small group. "The black frail will need someone to look in on her once _these_ aren't around any more."

From the corner of her eye as she spun around to look back and up, Buffy saw Jesse's face pale and his own eyes go wide.

"Creed," Jesse said.

"Hello Fisty Boy," Victor Creed said, as he launched himself off the front roof of the school. He came to a crouching, balanced landing atop one of the big stone lions at the end of the walkway before the steps. "Figured we'd continue where we left off, whattya say?"

"Figured you were too tough to kill," Jesse said. He took two long steps to his right, away from Buffy and the others, and added, "And I'm not Daniel Rand, anymore. Just plain old Jesse McNally."

"Gonna be a really short dance, then," Creed said.

"Giles. Ms. Calendar," Buffy said, quietly. "Back inside. Go."

"Yeah," Creed said, nodding. A slasher smile slid across his lips, showing nearly an acre of pointed fangs... "I'd do what the frail says."

"Aura, you and Willow run, _now_," Jesse said, equally quiet and soft. "Your quarrel is with _me_, Sabretooth. Leave them alone."

"Buffy," Giles said, as he and Jenny started to back toward the school entrance. "You can _not_ fight him."

"I'm thinking this fight picked me, Giles," Buffy said. "_Go._"

Her eyes wide and showing white all around, Willow broke and ran up the steps after Giles and Ms. Calendar as they continued to back toward the school. Aura began backing down the steps away from Buffy and Jesse.

"You're not gonna have much to say on it, whoever you are," Creed said, "But you're right – I got no real fight with 'em. You or the dead man, either," he added, looking at Angel as he backed up to stand beside Buffy.

"You have one with my friends, you've got one with me," Buffy said, as Jesse took another two steps to his right.

"Up to you," Creed said. A low, rumbling snarl came out of his chest, and he launched himself off of the head of the stone lion directly at Jesse.

* * *

.


	7. Like a Knight within his Castle

**Chapter Forty-two: Like a Knight within his Castle, in some Medieval Game – **

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, __Evening__5__:__4__0pm –_

Once again, for the third time in a twenty four hour period, Daniel Rand-K'ai found himself locked in deadly combat with Victor Creed, Sabretooth. Only this time...

This time he _wasn't_ Daniel Rand-K'ai, Iron Fist, the Dragon of K'un L'un.

_This_ time, he was merely plain old Jesse McNally, sixteen year old high school student, who just happened to have Daniel Rand's skills and fighting knowledge.

He _didn't_ have Daniel Rand's decades of combat experience and training to go with it, imprinted bone and muscle deep by thousands and thousands of hours of training and of combat against the toughest and most dangerous hand to hand adversaries his world had to offer. All he had was the muscle memory and knowledge.

Like an enormous feral beast poured into a man shaped package, Creed launched himself off of the head of the crouching lion statue directly at him. _Blinding_ fast; a rippling, snarling blur of flowing mane like hair and muscle, teeth, claws, and sinew.

Operating on a level of pure instinct, Jesse let himself fall backward with and under the flowing rush, grabbing a double handful of fur collared costume, bringing his right foot up into Creed's gut with bent knee, and straightening his leg as they went backward. Creed flew over his head, landing on his back with a massive _thud_ twelve feet beyond as the momentum of his leap carried him into and through the throw.

The technical name for that maneuver flowed through Jesse's mind unbidden, in both Japanese and the language of K'un L'un.

He and Xander had always called it the Indian Rifle Throw, though, after the countless times they'd seen it performed by actors and stunt doubles in Saturday morning Westerns...

Still acting on pure reflex and instinct, Jesse rolled smoothly up onto his feet. Turning as he rose, he saw Creed slap the ground as he hit the concrete beyond the foot of the school steps, rolling back up onto _his_ feet with fluid ease.

Sabretooth was grinning from ear to ear, lambent yellow eyes blazing merrily, and showing more teeth than the Osmond family, all of them pointed.

Victor freaking Creed was having the time of his life.

_Sabretooth_ was just freaking _playing_.

Oh, crap. He, Jesse McNally, was so very, _very_ fucking dead.

And so was everyone with him, from Aura to Willow to Buffy to Giles and Ms. Calendar.

Drawing in a deep and ragged gulp of air, Jesse set himself for the next rush, and the next after that. He wasn't going to let that happen.

Not even if it killed him.

* * *

The very first time she'd seen this, her first intimation of what she was facing was when Creed was crouching over her with one massive taloned hand raised and drawn back, ready to strike.

The first and only real time she had seen Sabretooth in action, she'd been viewing it through the, uh, kind of _unique_ perspective and perceptions of not-quite-yet-a-Princess Cinderella of Buffonia. Who was, let's face it, a nice girl, but a bit out of her depth in the place and situations she'd found herself suddenly immersed within.

Cinderella had seen a massive beast man, all rippling muscle and a blur of feral speed. A tiger poured into a human skin, all tooth and claw and instinct and ferocity.

Cinderella had seen a nightmare from the darkest depths of the Hell she'd never quite believed in made flesh and poured into a fur and hair trimmed burnt orange and brown body suit... and she'd seen a shining warrior in green and gold face that nightmare down and stop it cold.

This time, she was _herself_, Buffy Anne Summers.

And Buffy Anne Summers wasn't a freaked out sixteen year old hearth wench from a pseudo renaissance culture. She was a _Slayer_ who'd been on the job for well over a year and a half by now, and had faced two of the oldest and deadliest vampires in existence. She was a Slayer in what was very near her prime, and very close to her peak. She _knew_ what she was seeing, what she was watching, this time. Knew it on a level of training, experience, and bone deep instinct born of the accumulated knowledge and skill and experience of virtually thousands of her predecessors buried within her psyche.

What she was seeing wasn't encouraging.

Victor Creed _was_ a nightmare from the darkest depths of the Hell that _Buffy_ still didn't quite believe in made flesh and poured into a fur and hair trimmed burnt orange and brown body suit...

A body suit that was shredded, sliced, and torn, and visibly coated in dried blood. Wearing over that a sheepskin lined leather bomber jacket that was also sliced, ripped, and torn, and the whole of him covered in rock dust and pulverized plaster.

Looking like a nightmare that had, well, had a _building_ dropped on it. And had _lived_.

And Jesse McNally _wasn't_ Iron Fist. He was a visibly terrified high school sophomore operating on a level of pure instinct and terror, and way out of his depth.

Buffy Summers watched in horror, even as she moved, as Sabretooth flowed easily back onto his feet from that elegant throw, and launched himself seamlessly back at Jesse.

Even as she was moving, Creed landed where Jesse no longer was, spinning in place to swipe a clawed hand across the teenager's face and chest, and Buffy saw Jesse lean impossibly back and away so that the claws just barely skimmed the front of his jacket.

Leather flew in shreds away from those talons.

Angel reached him first, one powerful hand grabbing a massive wrist and wrenching it back and up behind Creed's back and his other arm snaking forward and around the bestial man's throat from behind. He wrenched Sabretooth around as Buffy launched herself into a flying sidekick, the ball of her left foot taking Creed across the jaw and snapping his head to one side.

Jesse ducked hastily as she went over him to twist and land gracefully on bent knees and the balls of her feet.

Sabretooth was barely fazed. Even as she watched, assessing, she saw his jaw snap back into place and muscle and tendon writhe under his skin as the damage knit back into place. Angel, his eyes yellow and _his_ face gone vampiric and bestial, sank fangs into the side of Victor Creed's throat.

Damn Ethan Rayne to the darkest corner of that Hell Buffy didn't quite believe in, not even after all that she had seen.

Creed reached up and back with the clawed hand that had shredded Jesse's jacket front, grabbed Angel by a fistful of gelled hair, and peeled him off like an annoying limpet.

Angel hit spread eagled flat against the front of the school fifteen feet away and ten feet off of the ground with a crunching _smack_ that echoed all across the campus. He slid down the front wall by the entrance doors all limp, with jaggedy ends of bone showing where they'd burst through the skin from the impact...

Holy crap.

Buffy swallowed once, _hard_, exchanging quick, wide eyed glances with Jesse.

They were both so very freaking dead.

And this wasn't even the freaking _Terminator_ guy.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Sunnydale High School Library, Sunnydale, Evening 5:40pm –_

"Willow! Will you please cease that aggravating babbling and help?" Giles hated to snap at the young girl, his protégé in many ways, but she was _not_ helping matters.

Willow gulped loudly and visibly, looking at him with great, huge, wounded looking eyes. "But- but- but... Giles! He's _killing_ them a-and... "

"And he will do _just_ that, if we do not come up with some way to be of assistance," Giles said, sounding as exasperated as he felt. Withdrawing a heavy compound crossbow from the rare books and weapon cage, he put his foot into the stirrup and began to draw back upon the string. "Now, what can you _tell_ me about this Victor Creed that may actually _help_ us?"

Willow gulped again, but at least some of the shocked look left those green eyes, and Giles could see thoughts starting to race behind them as that agile mind kicked in. Jenny Calendar reached in next to him, and withdrew a sheathed spatha, and began to buckle the sword belt around her waist.

"Do you still have some of the skills from last night?" Giles asked, arching his eyebrows.

Jenny nodded. "For all the good they might do against that thing out there," she said. She picked up a Barnett self-cocking crossbow and broke open the action to begin drawing back the string.

"Ok, well... " Willow said, scowling ferociously in thought. "Creed's powerful and dangerous, but he's not superhuman. Well, he _is_, really, but he's not on the level of some of the major heavy hitters in the Marvel universe."

"Which, I'm afraid, means very little to me," Giles said, frowning. He withdrew a favorite sword of Buffy's from the case.

"Well, I'm _trying_," Willow said, "B-but I was never the comic book buff that Xander and Jesse were. I just kind of picked up this stuff listening to them and playing Champions with them in Junior High."

"It's all right, Willow," Jenny said, "Just do the best you can. But _hurry_." Jenny shot Giles a reproving look, and he closed his mouth on the retort he'd been about to make, nodding.

"Well, he's, like, super strong, and _fast__ – _you saw that," Willow said. "And he regenerates, fast. Maybe not quite as fast as he's hurt, but he heals up fast, really fast. And he's gone up against and held his own against the deadliest hand to hand people in that universe, some of them superhuman themselves... Iron Fist, Psylocke, Daredevil, Wolverine, _Spiderman_..."

"You say he's superhuman, Willow," Jenny said. "Stronger than Buffy?"

"Well, maybe. Probably... " Willow said, frowning. "I mean, hey – it varies according to the writers and artists, but in general? Probably. He picked up a _car_ once and threw it a-at, I think, uh, Spiderman. And I've never seen _Buffy_ pick up a _car_."

Giles and Jenny Calendar exchanged grim looks. Giles nodded and said, "No, that's a bit beyond the strength parameters of a normal Slayer."

Giles pointed with the sword he'd picked up, and Jenny nodded and grabbed a pair of Chinese _yanmao dao_ swords, raising her eyebrows.

"From a number of Chinese martial arts styles," Giles said, "If young McNally _did_ keep Daniel's knowledge and skills, he may be familiar with their styles and use."

Nodding, Jenny began heading for the doors with her crossbow and the swords, Giles following, and Willow trailing along maintaining a steady stream of information that Giles feared would probably turn out to be mostly chaff.

At least she had stopped that infernal babbling.

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, Evening 5:45pm –_

It was like fighting a large hairy beach ball, Buffy thought. A hairy, massive beach ball with teeth and claws almost as long as her _hand_.

Hitting and kicking that massive body was like punching a wall of rubber. Creed just absorbed the blows, and rolled with and bounced back from them. And then he would bounce in and swipe at one of them almost lazily...

An almost lazy swipe that was so fast Slayer senses could just barely track it, and that Slayer reflexes could only just barely avoid.

She'd tried cross blocking one of those blows, _once_, and it had nearly snapped her forearm, and had knocked her rolling end for end down the steps.

Angel hadn't moved hardly since he'd hit that wall all broken, just partially risen, groaned, and sank back down as shattered bones ground against each other.

Buffy couldn't quite honestly see how Jesse was staying on his feet and non disemboweled. He was _fighting_ like Daniel Rand, though, even if it was just on reflex, instinct, and muscle memory like he'd said in the library earlier...

The problem was that, unlike from Cinderella's untrained and unpracticed perspective, Buffy could see Creed with the eye of an experienced and trained combatant. And he _wasn't_ just some mindless beast, and he didn't _fight_ like one. Buffy could see and recognize blows, maneuvers, blocks, and strikes from a half a dozen styles in the huge man's combat repertoire. _All_ of them, almost, from one or another of the _feline_ based Kung-fu styles, which actually kind of fit.

With that speed, and that resilience, and those reflexes and those claws, it turned him from a dangerous opponent into a _lethal__ly_ dangerous one.

A mindless, instinct driven beast would have been better and easier.

Once again, Buffy sucked in her stomach as she danced away from a blow of a clawed hand that would have gutted her. Once again, massive claws just skimmed across her blouse with a whisper of fabric.

Buffy Summers had long ago taken back every unkind and derisive thought she'd had about Kendra not being able to deal with this... creature.

For a new Slayer with less than a third of Buffy's experience and training? Kendra had done _phenomenally_ well. Buffy's estimation of her new little sister's combat expertise had skyrocketed in the last several minutes.

Truth was, Victor Creed had taken on and more than held his own against an expert fighter that might possibly be even more technically skilled than she was, and one of the most phenomenal martial artists that Buffy Summers had ever seen. _Twice_. And it had only been Daniel Rand's mystical punch thingy that had put the monster down and out. _Both_ times.

Buffy didn't think that was gonna happen here.

Jesse didn't show any signs of being able to pull the Iron Fisty thing out of his rear this time...

Buffy danced back in, launching a flurry of kicks and blows at Sabretooth as Jesse did the same from his side of the battle. Creed absorbed, blocked, or avoided all of them with no visible effort or damage.

A swipe of a massive hand sent Jesse rolling back and away from the blow, tumbling down the short flight of steps from the halfway landing. An impossibly swift backhanded blow caught Buffy in the chest as she darted back in, and nearly caved it in.

All of the breath went out of her with a _whoulf! _and she went rolling end over end to the very edge of the school landing, fetching up against the bannister wall with an impact that she didn't even register. Stars and little tweetie birdies danced in her vision.

Buffy Summers forced herself back up onto her feet and back into something resembling a stance, gasping for breaths that just wouldn't come.

Losing your feet in _this_ fight meant losing your _life_.

Creed was impossibly fast. Faster than she was... no. No one and nothing was that fast. _Nothing_.

Two minutes later, Buffy had reappraised that assessment. _Sabretooth_ was.

And stronger, as well. Creed was seven feet tall, meaning that Buffy's head barely came up past the bottom of his freaking _chest_. Jesse was a full head shorter than Sabretooth, and _loads_ less massive. Creed probably weighed three times her one hundred and five pounds, or more. And he had probably twice Buffy's reach...

Strength and speed being equal, then size, height, mass and reach _count_. Below a certain point, when the disparity is _too_ great, skill becomes irrelevant.

It was a testimony to just how vast a level of pure skill and expertise that Jesse had inherited from Daniel Rand that Jesse was still on his feet and un-gutted.

That, and one simple and seriously irritating factor...

Sabretooth was freaking _playing_ with them.

He was grinning from ear to ear and frigging _enjoying_ himself, batting them around like a male lion playing with his cubs.

"Buffy!"

At Giles' shout, Buffy put up a hand and caught the sword out of the air by the grip without looking. Cool. Not her favorite, but it was the neatly balanced two handed Viking style blade she'd always kind of liked.

Buffy Summers had a claw of her own finally.

She was vaguely aware of a similar shout from Jenny Calendar as Creed rounded on her with cheerful murder in his eyes, and of Jesse catching a pair of swords of his own.

Ho-kay. Armed, yay! Now, what was that cartoon quote that Xander liked so much? Oh, yeah, right...

Let's get _dangerous_.

* * *

A crossbow _twanged!_ as Jesse whirled his two new swords about his body in an intricate pattern, driving Sabretooth back and away from him briefly.

Gaining some _badly_ needed breathing space.

As if on instinct, like he had eyes in the back of his head, Creed spun and flipping caught the crossbow bolt out of the freaking _air_. The second one from Giles' crossbow, he batted away with a slap of a left hand.

"You _don't_ want a piece of me, gal," Creed snarled.

Jenny Calendar spun and ran to Angel as Giles backed away, working at re-cocking his crossbow. Creed swatted Buffy's kick aside almost negligently, sending her stumbling back from a short, hard, follow up punch. He just as negligently leaned to one side and then the other, letting the twin sword cuts Jesse threw at him by the barest of whispers before a backhand swipe of a taloned fist caught Jesse in the chest and sent him staggering away, gasping and wheezing for breath.

From the corner of his eye, as he was rushing back across the landing, Jesse saw Buffy shake off the residuals from the latest blow that had knocked her nearly sprawling, and lunge in with her two handed blade. It sank up to more than a third of its length into Sabretooth's side.

Creed arched his back, threw back his head and let out a roaring scream. A scream that was echoed by a shocked and horrified Willow and Aura as Jesse moved with desperate speed, trying to close that last final gap.

Sabretooth spun on a frantically backpedaling Buffy Summers, lambent eyes blazing, and caught the guard and forward six inches of the sword in a vise-like left hand grip, yanking her forward and back in.

The crossbow bolt in his right hand went in to fully three quarters its length, burying itself into Buffy's abdomen.

"Creed, _NO!_" Jesse yelled, both swords going back and coming in and around in a scissoring cross strike. A crossbow twanged again, and a bolt sank nearly to the fletching into Creed's upper back as he rounded on Jesse.

Sabretooth didn't even _pretend_ to notice it.

That long, two-handed Norse style blade spun in his hands and it moved in a blindingly fast double cross block that stopped and diverted both yanmao dao swords to the sides. Jesse's mind insanely supplied the Japanese for that particular maneuver as Creed stepped in and the blade came down in a cross cut slash that would have laid Jesse open from collarbone to opposite hip –

If he'd still been there. He wasn't.

Thank you thank you gods _thank you_, Ethan Rayne. Jesse wanted to have the dead Chaos mage's freaking _children_.

If it hadn't been for the skills and instincts that that idiotic, malevolent spell had left him with, Jesse would have lost his _second_ life by now, several times over.

If it hadn't been for Rand's incredible physique left behind along with the mystical energies of K'un L'un and the molten heart of Shao-lao infusing his entire being as it had Daniel Rand's, any single one of those powerful clawed hand blows would have swept right straight through any one of Jesse's blocks by now and slashed him in half.

After being raised in the mystical atmosphere of K'un L'un from the age of six, and for an additional ten years after his tenth birthday in a realm where time moved differently than it did on Earth, Daniel Rand-K'ai was no longer a normal human being.

The one major gift that Rand had left behind after he'd returned to wherever it was that Rayne had dragged his essence from, was that Jesse McNally no longer was either.

He wasn't _quite_ a metahuman like Creed or Spiderman, or Buffy and Kendra even, but he wasn't quite as far out of his league in this fight as Shang-chi or Daredevil would have been, strength and speed and reflex wise, either.

It made the only difference keeping him alive, where a normal martial artist of Daniel Rand's skill and expertise would have been a steaming gut pile by now.

Even as he danced backward, skipping back down the steps in the face of Creed's onslaught, both blades whirling in a glittering whirlwind of steel, Jesse saw Willow running up screaming as a gape mouthed, shock faced Buffy Summers slowly sank to her knees with both hands gripping the crossbow bolt jammed into her stomach.

"Told the frail my fight wasn't with her, boy," Creed snarled.

"Well, it's with _me_, now," Jesse said.

Sabretooth grinned, pointed teeth gleaming. "So – show me whatcha got. So far, I ain't impressed."

They came together in a glittering whirl of gleaming steel and flashing feet and claws.

* * *

"Oh Godess," Jenny Calendar looked down at the sprawled out vampire with undisguised horror. All that blood... "_Giles!_"

She threw a fast, panicked look in Giles direction. Oh, gods, no. Buffy was fallen to her knees with a crossbow bolt buried in her guts, and Giles was dropping his bow and dropping to his knees beside Willow, his hands going out to his Slayer...

"Oh, gods, Angel," she said, looking back at him. "There's bone sticking out all over your leg and _arm_."

"Compound fractures," Angel said, gasping. "You- you're gonna... have to set them."

"Oh gods, I _can't_," Jenny said.

"Have to," Angel said, his eyes wild. Jenny noticed absently that he was no longer in game face. He looked pale, desperate, frightened, and all too human now... "You _have_ to. I'm out of the fight this way. I... won't even... heal right this way."

"Oh gods... " Jenny had vague memories left over of Jennai doing just what Angel was asking of her. Rough combat medicine had been a necessity for a Gladiator in Ancient Rome... She took a deep breath. "What do I do?"

"Grab... my wrist," Angel said. "And put your foot in my armpit and yank. Got to... got to let the bones snap back into place."

"You'll be in agony," Jenny said, taking hold of his left wrist with both hands.

"Already am," Angel said. He essayed a weak smile. It looked horrible. "Do it."

She did.

Angel's scream was demonic in its pain and horrifying to hear.

"Oh gods... "

"I'll... heal," he said, panting. That horrible weak smile flickered across his bloody lips again. "Now... the leg... "

* * *

Once again, for the third time in a twenty four hour period, Jesse McNally found himself wearing a sliced and shredded outfit and covered in bruises and superficial cuts and scratches.

They came apart as they'd come together, in a blur. Both of them were breathing hard this time, taking in air in great shuddering gasps.

Victor Creed didn't look much better than Jesse did, and not all of it was left over damage to his costume this time.

Sabretooth brought a hand to his lips, the one not wrapped around the sword's grip, and licked blood from his talons in a gesture that was entirely too sensual for Jesse's comfort zone.

"You got guts, kid," Creed said. "Shame they're gonna be spread all over these steps before long."

"Oh no they're not," a female voice said from off to their left.

Both of them spun in place, to see a white faced Aura holding a large, short barreled revolver out in front of her in a two handed grip. Her knuckles were white on the grips...

Sabretooth's eyes widened as she opened up on him from a bare seven yards away.

Jesse saw fabric jump and pluck at Creed's jacket sleeve and shoulder, twice, and then blood blossom once, twice, three times on that massive chest and abdomen as the big revolver bucked and came down from recoil with Aura thumb cocking it between shots as it recoiled.

It didn't even slow Creed down.

He crossed the intervening space in a burnt orange, yellow, and brown blur. Jesse screamed, two long steps behind as a rippling snarl guttered out from between Creed's lips.

He never had a prayer of closing that gap.

Aura was suddenly dangling from Sabretooth's massive hand by the throat, her feet kicking as her toes lifted off of the ground.

"Gettin' just awful tired of you shootin' me, frail," Creed said.

"Well, _suck_ it," Aura managed to gasp out from beneath that grip.

Her right hand game up and around and jammed the revolver's muzzle against Creed's huge wrist, and the revolver went off twice sounding almost like a single long report.

Creed howled, his head going back as he let go of her reflexively. Aura hit the ground on her ass, her eyes wide, and she raised the revolver again –

– And shot Victor Creed straight in the nuts from point blank range, aiming up.

Jesse winced internally, even as he was rushing forward, his right hand blade clattering against the pavement as he reached way down, _deep_ inside of himself. Reaching for something he wasn't certain he really possessed, something that _had_ to be there, if only he could find and grasp it...

Ouch. That just _had_ to hurt. That left freaking _powder_ burns...

That internal reach touched, touched, and then latched onto and grasped a molten core of something that felt both alien and yet comfortingly familiar –

Jesse's right hand left a glowing red gold after image on the retinas of the few people who happened to be looking when it came around and up. The blow landed with a sound like a thunderclap, trailing a nimbus of red gold flame.

For the fourth time in twenty four hours, the power of the molten heart of Shou-Lao, the Celestial Dragon of K'un L'un, struck something like a freight train with everything, every ounce of will, every ounce of _being_ that Daniel Rand and Jesse McNally could put into it.

It hit like a thing of mystical iron.

And, for the second time in twenty four hours, Victor Creed, aka Sabretooth, arced up and back through the air –

– and went into and through a stone wall.

Jesse McNally hit the ground on his knees, and then his face, with the sound of Aura and Willow screaming his name in his ears.

* * *

Jesse swam back to something resembling vague awareness with the sound of Aura's voice in his ears again. Not screaming this time. It sounded shaky, but resolute.

"S-st-stay back," Aura said.

Jesse did his best to focus and bring just _one_ Sabretooth into his field of vision, instead of three of them.

Three was far, far too many. That was outright terrifying.

"Shoot me again with that thing, and I'm gonna feed it to yas," Creed said, his voice sounding far too mild. It sounded... amused.

"D-d-don't make me, then," Aura said, her eyes wide and showing white all around.

"You know?" Creed rumbled out, looking at her. "I'm starting to kind of like you, girly."

Jesse became aware, slowly, that Willow had her arms around him, holding him more or less kind of up off the ground.

"Help me up," he said.

"No! You _can't!_" Willow said.

"Do it," Jesse said. "Creed's not gonna attack us."

"You sound just awful sure about that," Creed said, in that same eerily mild voice.

With a massive effort that almost caused him to pass out again, Jesse shook off Willow's arms and struggled blearily to his feet. She gasped and rushed to grab and support him again as he wove unsteadily in place.

"You were gonna, Aura and Willow would be spread in pieces all over these stairs, and I'd never have woken up." Jesse shook his head, and regretted it immediately as everything swam before his eyes. "You'd have snapped Aura's neck right when you grabbed her. And Buffy would have eaten that bolt in her heart, not through the stomach."

From behind Creed, Jesse saw Giles stand, holding a limp Buffy in his arms. He gave the older man a bare nod as the librarian ran down the steps and past them, his face white as he headed toward the front parking lot.

Creed gave them a contemptuous look and a snorting laugh as they went by. He watched with sidelong amusement as Jenny Calendar supported a limping Angel with a horribly distorted and hanging left arm down to them in Giles' wake.

"No one's fighting here, Dead Man," Creed said, "Or dying. Wanna keep it that way, suggest you hang the fuck back this time."

Jenny stopped, her eyes wide and her face looking bloodless and unnaturally pale. Angel held up a hand, and said, "I'm easy. Long as it stays that way."

Creed snorted and gave a short sharp nod, then obviously dismissed the vampire and the computer teacher from his consideration.

"Hell, that wouldn't be any fun," Creed said, looking back at Jesse. "No entertainment if you can't _see_ your girls die and watch it comin'."

"What do you want, Creed? You're not planning to kill me today," Jesse said. "Or any of us." There – he was finally seeing just _one_ Sabretooth.

A damned shame he felt weak as a kitten and unable to do anything useful about it.

"You're not Danny Rand," Creed said. "But you _do_ have a pair." His eyes narrowed. "Thinking about making a special project outta you, like with the runt. Look you up twice a year on your birthday and Christmas and see if you can stop me from killing you yet."

Willow gasped almost in Jesse's ear, and Jesse managed a lopsided grin. "Gee, that sounds like fun," he said. "Not."

"Hah!" Creed grinned a mouthful of teeth at him, yellow eyes dancing. "You're good – _maybe_ as good as Danny Boy. But you just ain't up to snuff yet, not by a long shot."

"So?" Aura said, her eyes no longer quite as wide, and narrowing.

"Not any fun, Aura," Jesse said. "No challenge in it. And he's not getting paid to kill us."

"Heh. I could _make_ it fun, boy," Creed said, laughing. "_Believe_ me. I'm getting kind of tired of you knocking me through _walls_, too."

"Uh... what was it that Aura said before I hit you?" Jesse said, still weaving on his feet, punch drunk and nearly out. "Oh yeah – suck it."

"Hah!" Creed's face went serious, and those yellow eyes narrowed. "Practice up boy. Get back up to speed, fast. We're gonna dance again, just you and me. No swords, no frails with guns, no fucking vampires, and no funny smellin' warrior gals." He grinned, "Want you at the top of your game when I hunt you and kill you, y'hear?"

"I hear you, Victor," Jesse said, his voice gone quiet. "But – it's you and me. Leave my friends alone."

"Got no real quarrel with 'em."

Turning on his heel, and giving Aura a toothy smile as he did, Creed crouched, scooped up the viking blade from where it lay fallen, and leapt out and up onto the top of the stone lion at the top of the staircase. "Oh, by the way," he said, turning partway back, "'Means no one _else_ gets to kill you either, not until I'm ready to."

Jesse watched him go as he jumped from the stone lion back up to the school's roof.

"Great. I have a freaking seven foot tall homicidal bodyguard now," Jesse said. He gave Aura a smile that he hoped didn't look as horrible as it felt...

And his knees buckled under him and he felt himself slowly toppling forward like a felled tree, taking Willow down with him.

The last thing he remembered was seeing Aura drop the revolver and lunging to try and catch him. Then everything went black, first around the edges, and then all over.

* * *

.


	8. We Foresee Terrible Troubles

**Chapter Forty-three: We Foresee Terrible Troubles, and Yet We Stand Here Just the Same...**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Vandenberg Air Force Base, Southern California, Evening 5:45pm –_

From her position near the edge of the tarmac at Vandenberg, Dr. Margaret Walsh watched as the transport plane taxied to a halt, the turbo props slowing and finally becoming still. An exit staircase was wheeled up to the doorway by an Airman driving a mule, and then a group of nine armed figures wearing civilian dress came down the steps, looking around.

The one at the end of the group was a medium height, roughly five nine or so, slender man in his early fifties with a long face and wiry, graying hair. He wore, like the others in his group, plain khaki trousers and a brown leather bomber jacket, and mirrored aviator shades.

As she watched, he said something to one of the others in his group and headed across the tarmac toward her.

If he'd been a bit shorter and broader, his determined stride and pugnaciously thrust forward head would have reminded her of a bulldog or a mastiff. As it were, his wiry slimness caused her to think of one of the leaner hunting breeds of dog. A wolfhound or borzoi, perhaps...

"Dr. Walsh, I presume?"

"Yes," Maggie Walsh nodded, putting out her hand. The slender man took it in a surprisingly gentle grip, none of the machoistic crushing nonsense that some men used to intimidate.

Then again, this one probably didn't have to go around proving how tough or dangerous he was, she thought...

"Dr. Margaret Walsh, but please, call me Maggie if you wish."

He nodded. "Major James Buckley, Maggie. And that's my team, whom I think we'll leave on a nameless basis for the moment, for discretion's sake."

"Very well," Maggie said. "As you wish."

"Sir?" a uniformed airman came up to them with a clipboard under his arm. "I need your orders, please, and the purpose of your visit for the base commander."

"Huh." Major Buckley lowered his shades and looked at the amazingly young looking enlisted man. "I'm not quite certain precisely what it is that you're planning to report to your commander, son. That a plane that never actually landed here disgorged nobody and that you spoke with someone who was never actually here and might just as well have been a figment of your imagination?"

"Uh, sir?"

"Go ask your commander. Give him the ID numbers and code on the plane and the flight. Everything involved with this has already been cleared way above your pay grade, son," Major Buckley said. "I'm sure your commanding officer will tell you whether you have a need to know or not."

"Um, yes sir," the enlisted man said, gulping visibly. "I'm sure you won't mind if I confirm that, sir?"

"Be disappointing if you didn't," Buckley said. "As well as against regulations. Now, scoot."

Maggie Walsh shook her head, smirking slightly as she watched the uniformed soldier stride off hurriedly. Well, not soldier, perhaps, as he was Air Force... what _did_ one call enlisted Air Force personnel?

"Just doing his job, Doctor," Major Buckley said, with a slight frown. Maggie Walsh suspected that it was directed at her slight, condescending smirk, and cleared her expression carefully.

It didn't do to annoy professional killers one was expecting to work with...

"I'm going to assume that you and your men were given as full a briefing on the target as was possible with the available information?" Maggie asked him.

"You assume correctly, Doctor," Buckley said. "Should I assume that you have additional information for us, that wasn't in our initial reports?"

"Yes, I do," Maggie said, nodding and smiling slightly. "Including surveillance footage and recorded witness statements."

She didn't add that both were obtained without the official knowledge of the Sunnydale Police Department or the Mayor's office of Sunnydale. It wasn't relevant.

"Excellent. Nice to see that an ass was made of neither of us," Buckley said, returning the smile. "Am I correct in understanding that this is a _capture_ mission against an exceedingly dangerous and armed target?"

"That is correct," Maggie said. "However, going by your tone, I'm guessing that there may have been some misapprehensions in the data that was passed onto you. This is _not _a _live_ capture. The target is not _alive_ in any conventional sense. However, it is _exceedingly_ dangerous."

"Hrmm. That would possibly explain some of the unusually heavy equipage we were advised to bring, then," Buckley said. "I trust that you have full explanations for some of the apparent contradictions in your statement?"

"I do."

"Good." Buckley paused a moment, and then said, "I ran the two names you gave me through our intelligence gathering assets and computers, especially the surnames, and came up with a number of possibilities for locating them. Do you have parameters for dealing with the two civilian assets mentioned?"

Maggie Walsh nodded. "I have personal confirmation – oh boy, do I ever – that your target is determined to track down and assassinate both Miss Chase and Mr. Harris. Therefore it is as nearly one hundred percent certain that at some point it will arrive in their vicinity within the very near future as it is possible to be."

Major Buckley nodded. "Again, the parameters for dealing with the two civilians, Miss Chase and Mr. Harris?"

"Well... " Maggie Walsh frowned. "Both would be excellent intelligence assets if they could be obtained. However, while valuable, their intelligence isn't critical – all of the information that is needed can be obtained from the specimen once it is secured. Therefore, while it would be optimal if both or either of them could be retrieved alive for debriefing at an, umm, secure facility of my choosing, it would be regrettable but not a debilitating loss were that to prove impossible."

"Hmm." Buckley frowned at her over the lenses of his aviator shades. "Meaning that if the target kills them in the process, or they get caught in the crossfire and _we_ do, not to waste time weeping and gnashing our teeth over it. Just to cut through the double speak."

Maggie Walsh frowned. "Is that a problem, Major? I can _assure_ you that _both_ civilian targets are currently wanted felons in Sunnydale City and County, as well as within the state of California."

"You are aware, doctor," Major Buckley said, "That it is highly illegal for American Military personnel to conduct combat operations on U.S. soil, and especially to do so against American citizens? As well as to act in even an unofficial law enforcement capacity?"

"Well, yes... " Maggie Walsh blinked at him. Not an objection nor a statement that she had been expecting to hear... "Again, is that a problem, Major?"

Major Buckley smiled. "Not at the moment. I'll be sure to let you know if it becomes such. Possibly even _before_ it impinges upon our operating parameters."

Ah. An ass covering exercise. Maggie Walsh was more than familiar with those – they were very common in academia as well.

"Excellent," she said. "Shall we proceed then?"

"Just as soon as that airman or someone else comes back to confirm our nonexistent clearance, Doctor. I have a distinct aversion to being shot by military guards while attempting to legally requisition additional transportation." Buckley smiled tightly at her. "You can finish our briefing once we're off the base and at the temporary operating HQ you've prepared for us."

"All right." Maggie Walsh hesitated, and then said, "It also came to my awareness, unfortunately after my phone call to your superiors, that there is a second subject within the environs of Sunnydale that both of our superiors would find extremely useful for the project that I'm being employed for."

"Hrrm." Major Buckley shook his head, and smiled at her. "Let's deal with one target at a time, Doctor. You can brief us on this secondary target after we've made and solidified plans for acquiring the first one."

"Very well." Maggie nodded.

"Oh, and by the way, Doctor," Buckley said, pushing his sunglasses back up to cover his eyes. "I have _commanding_ officers. I have no _superior_ officers, nor _superiors_ of any kind whatsoever."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Kahuna Burger at East Ocean and North 7th, Sunnydale, Evening 7:40pm –_

"Ok, so... I'm thinking I may have a rough idea of what happened here last night," Warren said, after swallowing his latest bite from his triple Kahuna. "Or," he waved the burger, "An initial hypothesis that takes into account the available data."

"Do tell," Seven said, giving him an arched eyebrow and an inquiring look.

Weird. Not a single person, including the people at the cash register and counter here at Kahuna Burger, had even so much as blinked an eye at Seven walking around in her tight blue one piece and high heeled boots, with her optical/ocular implant and hand exoskeleton.

Warren Mears would be tempted to snort and say, 'California,' derisively, if he wasn't starting to think that 'freaking Sunnydale' would be a much more apt expletive.

Or maybe freak-_ish_ Sunnydale...

"Ok. Magic works, for one thing," Warren said, eying his companion carefully.

Seven paused enroute to taking a bit of her burger and stared at him. Both eyebrows went up this time, and she lowered the burger unbitten. "How do you arrive at that hypothesis?"

"Simple. Nothing else explains everything adequately," Warren said. "Hell, uh, heck – you watched the news right along with me."

Seven nodded, still looking at him curiously.

Hunger had finally driven them out of Warren's lab and out onto the street in search of sustenance. Well, driven Warren out. Seven showed every sign of being able to continue brainstorming and researching all night without a break, if needed.

Deciding that he'd rather have something other than whatever mom was cooking, or leftovers and chips, he'd suggested they go out and grab some burgers. Along the way, he'd detoured the long way around through a section of downtown, marveling at the destruction left in last night's wake.

And at the new hole in the front wall of Sunnydale High School that they'd seen when they walked past it. Right next to the freaking entrance way...

Not to mention the eight three-fifty-seven magnum shell casings he'd picked up off of the sidewalk at the foot of the steps when they went up for a closer look. Or the blood...

Finally, Seven said, "I am still uncertain as to how exactly you arrived at that conclusion."

Warren grinned. His hot new girlfriend and assistant had all of the curiosity of the proverbial cat, and the impatience of one too.

"Ok, facts: you, along with myself, Larry the Football Ogre, Xander Harris, and a number of other people apparently became our costumed personae last night. True?"

"Hrmm. As you say," Seven said, frowning. "Or at least I am unable to find evidence to contradict your statement."

"Fact: no technology that either of us are aware of is capable of generating that effect, not even on a small scale, much less as widespread as it seems to have been," Warren said. He held up his hand, adding, "And yeah, I'm aware that that doesn't rule out previously unknown technology. But I find it simpler and easier to believe in magic than in government transformation rays or alien mind control technologies."

"Continue," Seven said. She took another bite of her burger. Warren copied her, chewing thoughtfully.

"Fact," he said. "A freaking indestructible Terminator with Larry Blaisdell's face walked through the Bronze last night trying to Terminate Cordelia Chase, and killing anything and anyone that got in its way. And freaking Xander Harris rescued her using moves that I think a Navy Seal would have been hard pressed to match... and, oh crap," Warren blinked, his mouth falling open.

"Your expletive, mild as it is, indicates that you have had an epiphany, or a revelation," Seven said. "And please do close your mouth when you chew, Warren. That is unbecoming."

Warren closed his mouth hastily, barely even registering Seven's words. He finished chewing and swallowed hastily, taking a gulp of his cola. "Christ. That was freaking Jonathan freaking _Levinson_ hosing the Larry-bot down with a Thompson sub-machine gun like he was Audie freaking Murphy or Sergeant Rock or something. Wow. I just realized that."

"I am failing to make the connection that you have, perhaps due to unfamiliarity with both your references and with the personage involved," Seven said.

"Uh, Jonathan Levinson. He's in our, uh, my advanced computer classes with Ms. Calendar," Warren said. He bit into his burger again, and chewed thoughtfully some more, mostly to give himself space to think. "Ok, huh," he said. "No _way_ can Levinson do that. It adds to my certainty on my hypothesis... and I think a few more pieces fell into place and went clickety."

"Such as?"

"Such as why there's so many truly weird books in the rare book cage in the school library," Warren said. "And why Xander, Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, Ms. Calendar, and, oh crap – Cordelia fucking _Chase__ – _spend so much time in there acting secretive."

Seven frowned. "You believe that they are behind whatever occurred here last night? And perhaps in other incidents that we noted?"

"No... " Warren said, slowly. "I think they're _fighting_ it, whatever it is. Oh, my god. That's why Cordelia's freaking _car_ ended up in the front hall last year, right after I moved here. That's why Buffy Summers was able to pick up Larry like he weighed nothing, and slam him against the coke machine. That's why Principal Flutie supposedly got eaten by 'wild dogs'... and why Xander _Harris_ of all people was involved in saving Cordelia from those idiots who were cutting up cheerleaders. That's why Cordelia, Buffy, and Xander were tied in on the news with taking down those cultists at that fraternity at Crestwood College not so long ago... _Maybe_ even how Buffy Summers ended up on the news atop the standpipe with a freaking gorilla."

Seven was looking more and more confused as Warren continued. He didn't blame her – his thoughts were fast outracing his own ability to process them fully.

"That's why we have a freaking obituary column in our school newspaper. And why there's so much weird shit around here that no one talks about," Warren said, "And they all look blankly at you and change the subject when you ask. And why we have so many 'hallucinatory gas leaks.'"

"I may assume that eventually your ability to process will catch up to your intuitive leaps," Seven said, scowling, "And you will be able to explain where those leaps have led you?"

"Yes, oh gods." Warren shook his head. "We're living in Derry freaking _Maine_, like in the Stephen King novel." Warren's eyes widened, and he added, "And Mr. Giles, Ms. Calendar, Xander Harris, Buffy Summers, Willow, and Cordelia are the freaking Three Investigators."

"I still have no idea of the meaning of what you are saying," Seven said, looking more than somewhat bewildered.

"It means that I really _seriously_ better reconsider any half baked ideas I had about becoming a Supervillain and Master Criminal in this town, Seven," Warren said, shaking his head slowly. "It means that we need to go and have a serious talk with Jonathan Levinson, you and I. And it means that after that, we really, _really_ need to meet these people."

"All right," Seven said, nodding. She still looked confused, but that was ok, Warren thought. He hadn't had time to fully process and think this through yet himself – but he _knew_ he was onto something... "We need to do these things because?"

"We need to do these things because these people are real life _superheroes_, Seven," Warren said. "And I want both of us in on the ground floor and on the _right_ side of the bell curve on this one. _Not_ on the bad guy side of it where Buffy Summers might decide to slam one of us up against a Coke machine, or Cordelia might want to drive her car over us."

Seven nodded. "I quite agree. Nor would I wish to have Alexander Harris shooting at me with a high powered projectile weapon, as he did Terminator Larry Blaisdell last evening."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __The Bronze__, Sunnydale, Evening __7__:__4__0pm –_

Joel Garrity leaned on the upstairs railing at the Bronze, looking out over the club.

Quite honestly, he was freaking amazed that the place was open after last night. What he'd seen of the mass shooting and massacre here had been... just awful, jeeze.

And Larry Blaisdell had done the shooting? With Xander Harris either aiding and abetting him or trying to stop him, depending on what news channel and news reports you watched or read? No freaking way.

Larry, yeah, was a bully and a thug, but still... Joel couldn't see him as a crazed shooter. And Harris? No way.

From what little he'd seen of him, Xander Harris was a standup guy. Rumor and school scuttlebutt had it that Harris had helped to save Cordelia Chase from some weird cultists out at Crestwood, and also helped save her – or worked with her and the others in that group undercover to bring down – those weird Cheerleader gravedigger kids. Depending on who you asked and who was talking...

Rumor and school scuttlebutt, yeah. But Garrity would take rumor at Sunnydale High over news reports from L.A. and CNN any day. Especially when those rumours came from some of the people that these did.

News reports also had it that Harris and Cordelia were on the run, wanted for multiple serious crimes, and having escaped from the Sunnydale PD station either after or before Larry had supposedly shot it all the hell up.

Strange, surer than anything. Stars and stones, _their_ night and day must be beating the pure hell out of the weirdness of the one that he'd had. Joel grinned to himself at the familiar Dresden curse slipping out inside of his mind.

"Hey, didn't anyone ever tell you it's bad to have your back to a room?"

"Hey Shelia," Joel said. He didn't even turn his head to look as the female vampire and former Sunnydale High Student grabbed a hunk of railing next to him. "If you're hungry, I already gave at the office."

"Hah!" Shelia laughed, shaking her head. Giving him an amused and slightly impish look, she said, "Oh yeah? How many quarts?"

"Well, none, actually. I didn't say _what_ I gave."

"So you didn't," Shelia said, nodding. "See you got your Dresden coat on. And you added a hat, too."

"Yup." Garrity nodded, watching the dancers down below on the floor.

"You are aware that he never wore the hat in the novels, right?" Shelia glanced sidelong at him. "Never mind, of course you are."

"Yup."

"Can you say anything but 'Yup'?" Shelia said, grinning.

"Nope." Garrity looked sidelong at her, finally, and they both dissolved in laughter. "Hey, I like the hat on the covers," he said.

"Well, at least you got the right type," Shelia said. "Anything other than that flat brim Aussie hat, and you'd look like a total dork."

"As opposed to only a partial dork?"

"Naw. You look good, actually. All Dresdeny even if you are about a half a foot too short," she said. "So, how much of all that did you keep?"

Joel turned his head slowly, finally looking full on at the odd little vampire. "Oh, this and that. What gave it away?"

Sheila grinned at him. "You didn't flinch or jump when I spoke almost right in your ear. And I freaking _know_ you didn't hear me coming up. So... you sensed me somehow. Right?"

"Got it in one," Joel said. "My turn: you still doing the weird not quite a vampire bit? Or you gone back to normal, whatever that is?"

"Still. Thinking about stalking some of the more humanoid looking demons around to see if they make a decent tasting substitute," Shelia said, shrugging.

"And doing a public service at the same time," Joel said. "Ever figure out what happened?"

"Naw. Figured out I'm not gonna worry about it," she said. Shelia shrugged, and looked down into the bar. "Never really was wedded to that whole evil vamp thing anyway, and most other vampires are stupid idiots just marking time waiting for the Slayer to nail 'em."

"Huh." Joel nodded.

"Meanwhile, Willy buys past the use by date stuff from the hospital and blood banks, and resells," Shelia said. "And the butcher's shop here sells animal blood by the gallon, Buffy Summers says. They even have a drive through. Only reason a vamp _needs_ to hunt is that they're idiots."

"Uh huh."

"So, magic, huh? Wizard magic, even," Shelia said.

"Well, some, anyway. Not that I'm all that good," Joel said. He picked up the chain holding the silver pentacle necklace around his neck, and concentrated a moment. Slowly it began to glow, dimly at first, and then brighter and brighter.

"Ack! Cut that out," Shelia said, recoiling from the glow. "Sheesh. Guess that does work, huh?"

Joel nodded. "Not as big a believer in the holiness and purity of magic as Dresden, but I guess it's close enough for rock and roll," he said, letting the glow fade. "Now if I can figure out how to catch a pocket full of sunshine, I got it made." He smirked at her.

"Huh." Shelia nodded. "Oh, wait – I'm having an apostrophe here."

"I think you mean epiphany?"

"You have your grammar and vocabulary, I'll have mine," Shelia said. "You're thinking about going into the Harriet the Spy biz, and setting up your own Junior Detective Agency. Joel Garrity, Professional Wizard."

Joel stared at her.

"Tellin' ya, I'm freaking psychic," Shelia said.

"Really? So, tell me what I'm thinking now?"

"Try it, and I'll break your arm," Shelia said, smirking. Joel laughed, nodding.

"Ok, yeah, but that one was practically a gimme," Joel said. "I need to make a staff, and a blasting rod, first. Mine went back to plastic. And figure out how to do the rings thing... "

"Uh huh. We're gonna need an office," Shelia said. "I know a place – don't sweat it. I can work out a deal with the guy."

"_We_ are?"

"And a hot secretary and sidekick, too. I already talked to Amy – she's in as long as you're still a Wizard."

"Hey, waitaminit. How did we get 'we' out of this? And, Amy?" Joel stared at Shelia, boggled and more than just a bit amused.

"_We_, schmuck. As in 'partners in crime,' or at least in investigation," Shelia said, her smirk still firmly in place. "Or do you _really_ think you can go poking around in the supernatural in this town alone and _not_ get your head bit off? Get real. Besides, I'm bringing other stuff to the partnership besides vamp muscle."

"Oh yeah? Such as?" Joel was starting to grin, now.

"I know every single information hangout and informer in this town, from Willy's Alibi Room to Squisher's Basement," Shelia said, "And who to talk to. And more important – who _not_ to lean on. And I gots a really cool sword that didn't change back."

"Uh huh. Ok, and Amy?"

"She's a _witch_, dumbass. A _real_ one – she was a witch _before_ last night happened," Shelia said. "We're gonna need backup, and besides: she has _books_, dipshit. And learning materials."

"Ah." Joel nodded, thinking it over. "Ok. So... Garrity, Martini, and Madison or some combination or variation thereof? Or should we go with the classic: Harry Dresden, Wizard?"

"I'd say the classic, but Jim Butcher would probably sue us out of existence."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Lowell House UCS Campus, Sunnydale, Evening __8__:45pm –_

"Ok, so you guys are building your secret base underneath an old fraternity house?" the question came from the big, broad shouldered and chested black man on Buckley's team, the one with the shaved head.

"Yes, we are. We've found it to be a nearly perfect cover here," Riley Finn, the lead man on Dr. Walsh's advance team said, smiling.

A slow, broad grin spread across the young black man's mouth, and over several other's in Buckley's group. "That seems... just awfully appropriate," he said, looking the tall, young looking Finn up and down with a slow smirk.

Finn's smile died, to be replaced by a scowl and a slow flush spreading up from his collar. His two associates, Gates and Miller both bristled visibly.

"All right, belay that, Chet," Buckley said, although it was apparent that there was a barely restrained grin lurking at the corners of his own lips. "We're not here to antagonize our local liaisons. We're here to get a job done."

"Ahem," Dr. Maggie Walsh carefully kept her face expressionless. "Are there any questions?"

"Yeah," said another of Buckley's men, this one a thirty-ish looking Eurasian male. "So, Mr. Finn... "

"That's _Captain_ Finn," Finn, said tightly. Finn, a young looking and very tall man in his mid twenties with a mid western accent, was dark blond and had a complexion that showed his still dark flush to good effect.

"Of course it is," the Eurasian said, obviously carefully hiding a smirk of his own. "Although I coulda _sworn_ the good Doctor called you _Agent_ Finn. Make that two questions: aren't you a little young to be a Captain, Mr. Finn?"

Finn's flush deepened, as did his irritated expression. "First Lieutenant prior to being assigned to this mission and this group. Breveted to Captain, Mr... ?"

"Of course you were," he said, nodding. "And we don't have any ranks, El _Capitan_ Finn. Mister is just fine. My other question is – "

"– Is this gonna be a stand up fight? Or just another bug hunt?" another of Buckley's men suggested, grinning.

"And how come we never get any of the missions where all the beautiful young colonist's daughters need to be rescued from their virginity?" yet another of Buckley's people asked, smiling.

Finn's flush was joined by a matching one on Miller. It was hard to tell if the young black man on Finn's team was flushed or not, but his deepening scowl suggested he was.

"Because then they wouldn't send _you_, Mitch," one of the group's women stated, to general laughter.

"Major Buckley," Maggie Walsh said, her voice tight. "I was under the impression that we were going to be working with professionals when Mr. Baines suggested your team."

"You are, and none better at what we do, Doctor," Buckley said. "Once again, Chet, and the rest of you, belay all that. We're required to _work_ with the local resources. I suspect that all of you know that that tends to be easiest and most effective when said resources are _not_ nursing resentments and looking to shoot us in the backs, correct?"

"Yes sir, Major," Chet said, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry sir. Got a bit carried away, sir."

There was a shifting of people in chairs, and a quick hiding or swallowing of grins and or scowls among Buckley's men. Maggie Walsh took advantage of the brief lull to study them once again. All of them were reasonably young: in their late mid-twenties to early or mid thirties, with the exception of Buckley himself and his forty-ish second in command. In short: what Walsh had come to realize were prime ages for top people in their primes in the special forces community. They were a mixed group, racially and otherwise: two of Buckley's 'men' were women.

There were actually twelve of them, counting Buckley: another three had exited the transport with a set of large vans, a short while after Maggie and Buckley had begun speaking on the tarmac.

Doing a quick head count, Maggie frowned. Well, nominally twelve... three had split off enroute and had never rejoined the group.

"You seem to be missing a couple of men, Major," Dr. Walsh said.

Buckley's eyes widened and he looked around, with a surprised expression, and then relaxed. "I'm not missing anyone, Doctor," he said. "I know perfectly well where all of my people are."

Walsh frowned. "Then, may I ask where the other three members of your company are?"

"Certainly," Buckley said, smiling. "You are perfectly welcome to ask."

After a long moment, Walsh sighed internally, not letting it show on her face. Infuriating... she should introduce him to the so called 'Dr.' Giles.

"I see," Walsh said, carefully. "Then, where are they?"

"Out. Conducting initial surveillance operations, based upon the initial Intel you passed on," Buckley said, in a flat tone that stated that no further details would be forthcoming.

Walsh sighed, then nodded. "Very well."

Buckley's men – and women – had also viewed the security camera footage from the Sunnydale Police Headquarters and the Bronze of the Terminator's attacks at both places with interest, and with no visible apparent surprise or disbelief.

One of them, a thirty something Hispanic identified as Mr. Delgado, asked, "So, this is a real, honest to God live Terminator? Just like in the movies?"

"Yes, as best as we can determine," Finn said, nodding. "Although alive isn't exactly the term, to be specific."

All of Buckley's people nodded, exchanging glances. "Operational, then," another one of them said, shrugging. "Cool. Always wanted to try one of those on for size."

"Yeah," Delgado said. "At last, something without slime, tentacles, and more teeth than a denture salesman."

"I have another real question, Sirs, Ma'am," the one of Buckley's women present, a twenty-ish medium complected African-American woman said, her eyes narrowed.

"Yes? Go ahead, Miss... " Finn looked at her inquiringly.

"Barkley. As the man said, we don't have any ranks here, Captain," she said.

"Barkley, then. What's the question?"

Barkley frowned a bit deeper, and indicated the monitor they'd been watching the Bronze footage on. "The young man there, the one rescuing the young woman in the tiger suit. We're given to understand that you are classifying them as hostiles?"

"Yes, that is the case, Miss," Finn said, nodding.

"And further, that our instructions are that we are not to concern ourselves with the safety nor the well being of those two individuals that we are using as... bait, is that correct?"

"Yes... " a deepening scowl began to grow on Finn's forehead, as well as those of his two companions.

"Is there a problem, Miss Barkley?" Maggie Walsh said, a slight scowl of her own forming.

"Major," Barkley looked past Walsh and directly to Buckley. "Unless I am badly mistaken, that young man – and the young woman – are approximately seventeen years or so of age. At most, eighteen. And that young gentleman faced down an opponent that he apparently _knew__ – _from his expression, or lack thereof – had him outclassed and might well be beyond the capabilities of his weapon. And did so regardless, at considerable risk to his own life and limb to rescue a _civilian_."

"Miss Barkley," Captain Finn said, frowning. "Mr. Harris is _not_ military. _He's_ a civilian, and further, a wanted criminal and someone that our intelligence suggests willingly associates with HSTs, as is the girl he was rescuing. That places him firmly within our remit here."

"And you say so, sir," Barkley said, not bothering to look at him. "Major?"

"Our orders are to extend to Dr. Walsh and her people our fullest cooperation and assistance in carrying out her mission here, Miss Barkley," Buckley said, slowly, looking his team member in the eyes. "Is this going to be an insurmountable difficulty for you, or anyone else?"

Several people on his team exchanged glances, wearing unreadable expressions.

"No sir, Major," Barkley said, shaking her head. "I am merely attempting to confirm and establish to my own satisfaction the parameters we'll be operating under, and the reasoning behind them. And to make my own reservations clear _before_ we become mission critical."

"Understood," Major Buckley said, nodding. Glancing up at Walsh and Finn, he said, "Would you care to field this for myself and my men, Doctor, Captain?"

Walsh's frown deepened. "As I'm certain that you all can't help but to have noticed coming through town on our way here tonight, Sunnydale experienced considerable destruction and loss of life and limb last night. As of 5:30 this evening, tentative death tolls are well over a hundred – in a town of thirty-eight thousand, and there are at least a thousand people still missing and unaccounted for. Many of them _children_. That's in _addition_ to the forty-three civilian police officers killed or critically wounded in the HST assault on the police station. More bodies and more missing persons reports are being filed and found _as_ we sit here. That is as a _direct_ result of hostile action by the HSTs – Hostile Sub Terrestrials – that our group was commissioned to study and eventually combat."

Captain Finn and his people nodded. "And those two teenagers as you seem to view them, are members of a group that our surveillance has determined to contain at least one HST, possibly another, and who willingly work with both. HSTs... a classification that your – and our – commands have determined and declared to be a threat to the national security of the United States, and that which we swore an oath to protect."

"I don't believe that we require a reminder of the military and officer's oaths of the United States military, Captain Finn," another member of Buckley's team stated. He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm pretty sure we have them memorized. Are we correct in understanding that Mr. Harris and Miss Chase are United States Citizens?"

"That's been determined to be irrelevant by our respective commands," Finn said, flushing again. "They're classified as being allied enemy combatants and subjects of interest, at the moment."

"That's not an answer to my associate's question, I'm noticing," another of Buckley's men said.

"It's the answer that's relevant," Maggie Walsh said, "Mister... ?"

"Glenn Leaphorn, US Army Rangers, Ma'am," the dark complected man said, giving her a flat look.

"I believe that what my associates are attempting to point out here," 'Chet' said, also giving her – and Finn – a flat, expressionless stare, "Is that we are United States military personnel. It's not in our remit, nor is it that of the United States military, to engage in hostile action upon our own civilians. It is our job to _protect_ said citizens from the hostile actions of the enemy."

"We're military as well," Finn's associate, Miller stated.

"Of course you are," the woman, Barkley, said. Her expression made no effort at concealing her obvious contempt.

Finn, Miller, and Gates stiffened. "Ma'am, I _am_ U.S. military, as are my men. Captain Riley Finn, 3rd Ranger Battalion, United States Army, Rangers."

It didn't even remotely escape Maggie Walsh's notice that several of the faces in Buckley's command froze suddenly at that announcement, nor that several backs stiffened abruptly.

"Of course you are," Leaphorn said, his voice gone very soft. Finn's flush ran all the way up to eleven on the meter. "Sir." Leaphorn added, a bit belatedly.

It also didn't escape Maggie's awareness that Major Buckley watched everything transpiring with concealed, but active interest.

"Major," Barkley said. "I am requesting and requiring clarification and formal, verbal orders on this."

"We've been assigned a job to do here, Miss Barkley," Buckley said, his voice mild.

"That is not an adequate response to my request and requirement, sir," Barkley said, and several people nodded.

"No, it is not. You are correct," Buckley said, sighing. Running a hand through his hair, he gave Walsh an exasperated look. "Any input before I answer the request, Doctor?"

"I'm afraid that I'm really _not_ understanding the problem here, Major," Walsh said, frowning. "You and your men were recommended _and_ assigned to us by Mr. Baines. My orders and those of your super- _commanding_ officers are extremely clear here: we are to capture and contain this HST identified tentatively as 'Larry Blaisdell' as a _direct_ threat to the security of the United States and its citizenry by any means possible, _using_ any means necessary."

"I'm quite aware of my orders, Doctor," Major Buckley said, mildly.

"Then... " Maggie Walsh shook her head and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Miss Barkley. Gentlemen. When it was stated that it was irrelevant to our project and our remit that the capture and containment of Miss Chase and Mr. Harris alive was optional, I didn't not mean that that was our first, or even primary option. I – we – would greatly _prefer_ to have them _alive_ and _unharmed_ if at all possible. They are a _valuable_ intelligence resource for this project. I merely mean to emphasize that in light of the dangerous capabilities of our primary target, that doing so might not be possible, not that it was not desirable."

Miss Barkley nodded, her face still frozen. She looked to Buckley.

"We really can't allow this thing to wander around loose in Sunnydale killing other people, Keesh," another of Buckley's men said, the older, forty-ish male.

"I am aware," Barkley said, dryly. "Major?"

"Major Buckley," Walsh said. "You and your men are subject to the same command structure that my project here is. And you were given orders to assist me under _my_ command, I was given to understand."

Buckley nodded. "My orders originate with one person, actually. And _he's_ near the very top of the chain of command."

That wasn't precisely an agreement, Walsh noticed.

"All right, Barkley," Major Buckley said, looking and sounding tired. "You have your clarification. We are going to stop this thing, using any means at our disposal. Because, as Chelsey pointed out, we can't allow it to rampage around killing indiscriminately, or even _with_ discrimination. However – we _will_ make every _possible_ effort to safeguard and protect the lives of our two civilian subjects if it is at all humanly possible to do so. We have our orders. Good enough?"

"Sir," Barkley said, nodding a bit stiffly. "Understood, Major."

"Major?" Finn said, frowning slightly. "Orders are orders, regardless of their content and _any_ personnel's personal feelings on them, correct?"

"Captain? Major, if I may," Chelsey said. Buckley nodded and made an 'as you will' gesture. "We are aware of that. However, there is no requirement that I am aware of that we like or approve of said orders, nor that _we_, at least, keep our disapproval to ourselves. Further, there _are_ such things as illegal orders." Chelsey frowned, and added, "In my opinion, these are borderline, at best."

"Mister Chelsey... " Miller said, frowning. "I was under the impression that you and your men were Black Operations personnel, as we are."

Chelsey grinned without mirth. "I've been in Black Ops longer than most people, kid. This ain't the movies or Tee Vee, and it ain't supposed to work like that in the U.S. Military I signed onto. _We_ let the spooks conduct illegal operations on U.S. soil against U.S. citizens – no one _gives_ a rat's ass if _they_ screw it up and hit CNN and Senate subcommittee hearings."

There was general laughter at that from Buckley's men, and a slight releasing of tension.

"We're not private contractors, either," Chet said, grinning. "Blackwater can do all of that stuff they want to, as long as they don't cross people like us doing it."

"All right," Buckley said, smiling slightly. "Clarification was requested and required, and it has been given. We are _going_ to carry out the mission and our orders, within the parameters I clarified. Moving along, now."

"Good thing you told us to bring the heavy stuff, Major," Chet said, to a general round of chuckles.

"Major?" Walsh gave him a curious look, and said, "If you had determined that you could not answer that, umm, request and requirement to your men's satisfaction... ?"

"We'd have packed up and gone home, Doctor," Buckley said, easily. "Like the man said: we're not Blackwater or Timi Defense. I would have reported to my one commanding officer that I could not determine the legality nor the validity of your operation. After that, it would have become above my pay grade." Buckley paused, and then added, his expression blank. "Else I would have assumed command of this operation as per my orders, and would then have instituted mission parameters that my people would _not_ have found objectionable."

"Now, see here, Major..." Walsh began...

Buckley smiled, and cut smoothly over Walsh's next statements, and said, "Now. While my men are absorbing the data you've already given us, and the briefing materials, you stated that your... people... had identified another subject of interest?"

"Ah, yes... " Walsh frowned, and decided to let both Buckley's insubordination, his cutting over her, and his dismissive attitude toward Captain Finn and her men go, and move on. "I- _we_ have men in place watching several of the areas where one of the local groups of interest congregates and operates out of. This video footage was taken early this evening, while I was enroute to our first meeting. I'm sure you and your men will recognize the subject from FYI news footage..."

Walsh picked up a remote and clicked on the monitor, and a view of Sunnydale High School and the footage of the fight with Sabretooth began to play.

"I give you Victor Creed, gentlemen, aka Hostile Species 417-I," Walsh said, her voice dry. "The 'I' designates a unique to our knowledge individual. One of the most dangerous HSTs, next to our primary subject, that we have observed to date. We believe that he, or it, may be a byproduct of whatever effect caused last night's disruptions, assuming that he is not a hitherto unknown but preexisting HST. He appears to be inhumanly strong, durable, and fast, as you'll note, murderous, and apparently is possessed of fast regenerative capabilities."

Buckley's men watched it expressionlessly. Their only comments were the occasional professional critique or comment on the combat itself. That and one crossed legged wince from every male in the room...

"I like that girl," Barkley said. "Tough minded, fast thinking, and she has guts. Competent shot too – nice grouping for a non-professional."

Finally, Mr. Chet shifted in his seat and looked at Finn. "And your men are basically instructed to lay back and watch things like this, without offering aid and assistance to these... forgive me, but I'm finding it difficult to find a better word for them, _teenagers_ and letting _them_ do your fighting?"

Finn flushed bright red, and said, stiffly. "We're a clandestine operation. Our orders don't permit our revealing ourselves and our presence to the local population, not even to the civilian authorities here."

"Such as _those_ are," Miller said, equally stiff.

"I can see that your people and mine are going to continue having... doctrinal differences, Doctor," Major Buckley said.

Walsh flushed this time. "Major, we are following the instructions and parameters that were outlined for this project at the very highest levels. I'm really not appreciating your position, nor your men's commentary on that. Further, the DRI's goals are to obtain, identify, and develop technologies and programs, such as the Future Soldier Initiative, that will eventually reduce and possibly even eliminate a number of the risks that people like yours currently work with and are subject to."

"Of course they will, Doctor," Buckley said.

"You know, we really are on the same side here, people," Captain Finn said. "We swore the _exact_ same oath that you did."

Walsh knew that the words were a mistake as soon as they exited Finn's lips. She could see from his expression that so did he.

Barkley stared at him and said, quietly, "I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against _all_ enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter."

After a long, frozen, and very quiet and still moment, she grinned at Finn like a winter starved wolf. "You really, really _don't_ want _us_ classifying _you_ as enemies _domestic_, Captain Finn. Not a good plan."

"Yup," Leaphorn said. "That's just bound to be purely _made_ of suck. Briefly."

* * *

.


	9. Ticking Away the Moments -

**Chapter Forty-four: Ticking Away the Moments That Make Up a Dull Day...**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Night 8:30pm –_

"My god! You had a _gun_, Aura?" Willow stared at Aura, her eyes wide.

Aura rolled her eyes. "You keep saying that word. I do not think it means what you seem to think it means."

Jesse snickered, and Willow's eyes narrowed. She swatted him on the upper arm, hard. "Don't you snicker at me in that tone of voice, Jesse McNally. You- you... "

"Recently dead guy?" Jesse suggested. "And, ow! Dammit, Will – that hurt!"

"Oh, please. It was like thumping a rock," Willow said. "I'm the one who should be going owie. And _you_–" Willow turned to Aura again, "_You_ said you didn't have your guns any more!"

"Give it up, Will," Aura said. "I _said_ I wanted my machine guns back. I did _not_ say I was going to walk around unarmed and helpless in this town, not ever again."

"But – "

"But but _but_. I swear, Will. Yeah, I know that your parents hate guns, yata yata," Aura said, rolling her eyes. "But how _anyone_ ever expects to make that whole 'never again' thing stick unarmed, I'm _never_ gonna get. Some of the _rest_ of us have parents who own them and aren't phobic about it."

"We're not phobic!" Willow's eyes widened. "It is _not_ phobic to- to... you're too young to have a gun!"

"Yeah. And _you_ didn't used to enjoy shooting with us out at Xander's uncle Rory's place when we were little," Aura said. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

"Oooh. I'm not talking to you any more," Willow said, folding her arms over her chest and turning away. "You- you're _impossible_."

"Cool. I could get to enjoy the silence," Aura said, folding her arms and turning in the other direction.

Jesse did his level best to swallow a grin. It was just bound to get him beaten to death by his second oldest friend, _and_ his new girlfriend... "Uh... an eight shooter?"

Aura blinked, and looked at him. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Smith and Wesson Model 627 8-shot three fifty-seven magnum. It was in my dad's gun safe, and I liked the feel of it. Plus, it fit in my purse."

"Your dad left his gun safe open?" Willow blinked, looking scandalized.

"No. I drilled it out and cracked it."

"You– !" Willow's eyes narrowed. "Ok, now you're making fun of me."

"No. Really?"

"Uh, girls?" Both glares turned like gun turrets and riveted him in place. Jesse shrank to about six inches tall inside, gulped, and forged onward. "Jeeze. I just faced down freaking _Sabretooth_, and I'm still terrified of you two. Sheesh."

Willow's lips started to twitch at the corners, and she looked sidelong at Aura. "Well, you _should_ be, Mister. Your _girlfriend_ shoots people in the bad place."

Aura snickered and said, "Damn straight." She glanced sidelong at Willow, and they both started laughing. "Package check!"

"He had one, all right," Willow said, giggling.

"Not after that," Aura said. "But unfortunately, I think it grew back."

"Sigh." Willow shook her head, "Ok, Y'know, we _could_ just admit that we're both – all – worried _sick_ about Buffy."

"What, and quit sniping at each other?" Aura let her eyes widen. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Well, I dunno... "

"Gee, and break an eight year long streak? Does tradition mean _nothing_ to you women?" Jesse said, starting to grin.

"Oh, shut up."

"Anything yet?" Giles and Ms. Calendar came around the corner, and looked at them curiously. Giles handed Aura a Coke and Jenny gave a Root Beer each to Willow and Jesse.

"Thank you," Aura said. "And, no, sorry. Nothing yet."

"Ah." Giles took a sip from his Styrofoam cup, and made a face. "Why they bother labeling this foul concoction _tea_, I will never understand."

"Oh, no, never ever get anything out of a hospital drink vending machine, Giles," Willow said. "Not unless it's in a can or a bottle, anyway."

"Thank you, Willow. I shall endeavor to remember that."

"Yeah... unless it's hot water. I know it's not real tea, but a tea bag and a cup of water is much better than... _that_," Aura said, making a face of her own.

"Quite," Giles said, nodding. "And I must say, I am surprised to hear you state that Liptons in the bag is not real tea."

"Rupert is just amazed that anyone in the Colonies is aware that tea comes in leaf, and not in bags," Jenny said, starting to grin.

"Really? I thought it came on ships in Boston Harbor!" Aura said, her eyes widening.

"It used to, but they had to start putting it in little bags after a bunch of Colonial idiots threw it all overboard," Jesse said, deadpan.

"Hah hah. Yes yes, quite funny," Giles said.

"Yeah, well, we actually drink the real stuff at my house," Aura said, grinning. "With a tea service and everything. Even a tea ball. And milk."

"Inconceivable," Giles said, and everyone laughed.

"You know, Giles," Willow said. "Just because it's taking a long time, doesn't mean it's bad. I mean it is bad – we _saw_ that, but... "

"Yeah. It took them _hours_ to tell me anything about Kendra, and it was good news when they finally did," Aura said.

"Quite. And I _do_ know this," Giles said. Jenny squeezed his arm comfortingly, and he patted her hand, smiling. "Oh – and thank you for staying with Kendra. It is appreciated."

"Ah. No problem. Someone had to," Aura said, waving it off. "And the rest of you had critical stuff to do."

"Not really such a small thing, Aura," Jenny said, frowning at her.

"Yeah. Hey – it was good to see that Kendra was looking better, even if she did zonk out on us after a few minutes," Jesse said. "And, I, uh, thought that Slayers healed faster, you guys said?"

"Duh. It's not even been a full day yet, Doof," Aura said.

"Uh... oh," Jesse blinked at her. "Uh, that's right. Wow. It's been such a long, _long_ day it seems longer. Sorry."

"And intense," Willow said, nodding. "Don't forget intense."

"That too. Heck, at this rate," Aura said, "By the time we have your first week _re_birthday party, it'll have been _years_."

"Quite," Giles said, smiling. "Oh – and I do detest having to mention this, but, however... do please refrain from bringing the arsenal to school with you, please?"

Aura nodded, looking serious. "Yeah. Because you already have enough of an arsenal in the freaking library."

"Ah, uh... " Giles blinked at her, and slowly began turning red.

Jenny snickered. "I think she's got you there, Rupert." She looked at Aura, and started to say something else, but was cut off by an outsider voice.

"Dr. Giles, I'd say it was a pleasure to see you, but... "

Everyone looked over, and Giles cleared his throat. "Ah. Detective Stein, yes," he said. "What brings you here? Oh- um..."

"It's all right," Stein said, smiling slightly. "Not like we don't have enough people here, but... my partner is one of the wounded."

"Ah. Terribly sorry," Giles said. He removed his glasses and started to polish them, looking uncomfortable.

"Really am, Paul," Aura said. "And, hey – good on you for cutting Cordelia and Xander loose."

"Shhh!" Stein said. "Not out loud. My new boss might overhear you, and I'll have the shortest temporary promotion in history."

Jenny frowned. "Why? What happened to Chief Munroe?"

"No one knows," Stein said, shrugging. He winced, and adjusted the sling on his arm. "He ah, bugged out when the shooting started moving up to the third floor, and no one's seen him since. Nor the Assistant Chief, who declined to come in and take command of that cluster- ah... "

"Clusterfuck, sir?" Jesse said, smiling.

"Something along those lines, yeah," Stein said, smiling back. "So, you guys?"

"Ah... " Giles and Jenny exchanged looks. "We have, ah, two students here, sort of, and they have two friends in hospital. The same two," Giles said.

"You see the huge fight with the big hairy cat guy on FYI?" Aura said.

"Well, kind of. Perry and Kolchak were actually kind enough to let me view the original tapes last night. This morning?" Stein said. He smiled again, "You will note that I am carefully not recognizing anyone here who was definitely _not_ on those tapes."

"Ah... oh," Aura said. "I think I'll be shutting up now."

"Wise choice, no doubt," Stein said, his voice dry. "Who did _you_ go out as? John McClane?"

"Heh. I was thinking Marty Riggs in drag." Aura swatted him, and Jesse grinned at her. "Well, Sabretooth, aka big hairy guy, paid us a repeat visit," Jesse said. "He put Buffy Summers in here, in addition to our other friend."

"Ouch." Stein winced, and said, "I am sorry. Truly." He sighed, "And, I'm also very carefully _not_ picturing you wearing a shredded yellow mask, son. And not recalling that we had a missing persons report on you for months after last January."

"Greatly appreciated, sir," Jesse said, nodding. "Umm... about that. You don't happen to know if my folks..."

"Left any forwarding information with us? No," Stein said, "Sorry."

"Sigh. Ah well," Jesse said, shrugging. Aura rubbed his arm.

"Good technique, though, by the way." Stein looked at Giles, and said, "Once all this has settled down, we are going to need to have a long talk, you and I. All of us here, actually. I have a few, um... off the record curiosities I would greatly like to have satisfied."

"Hmm." Giles said, "Well, I certainly don't mind speaking with you, of course, Detective. However, I must warn you... "

Stein raised his eyebrows, and Jenny Calendar cut in, "There are some curiosities that you can't unknow once they've been satisfied."

"Ah. I'll have to take that chance, then," Stein said, nodding.

"Mr. Giles? If it helps... Paul is one of the good guys, really," Aura said. "He's been a friend of Cordelia's and her family for, oh, eons."

"Thanks Aura," Stein said.

"Speaking of," Giles said, replacing his glasses, "Has anything been heard of about Cordelia and Xander Harris? Officially, I mean?"

"No. Sorry," Stein said. "Gonna hazard a guess that since you're asking that, there's been nothing unofficial on your end?"

Giles shrugged. "Sorry."

"Well, if you do – not that I'm going to request and require that you tell me where they are," Stein said, "Pass on that I intend to do what I can to see that they have some sort of assistance on their legal mess. For what that's worth. Which, admittedly, may not be much."

"It is appreciated, Detective," Jenny said, "However much or little that turns out to be."

"How is, ah, Detective Lundy, was it?" Giles said.

Stein shrugged. "In ICU, and still unconscious. They're not willing to state when or if he will regain consciousness."

"Ah. Oh, dear."

"Summers? And the other girl?" Stein asked.

"No word on Buffy yet, Detective," Willow said. "And Kendra – our other friend – is gonna make it and be ok, eventually."

"Oh, good. And I hope that – " Stein let out a sudden enormous yawn, looking startled. "Ah. Sorry. Haven't actually been to bed since around noon Friday when I got up to come on duty."

"Believe me, we quite understand," Giles said. "It has been a rather long and intense evening and then day."

"Oh, definitely." Stein nodded, and said, "It has been that. And I do hope that Miss Summers recovers."

"Yeah. And hope you get to sleep eventually," Aura said.

"Hah. Another thing my new boss isn't ecstatic about, Stein said, starting to grin. "There's actually enough outside police here now that I'm thinking I can stagger off to bed at some point. We have at least three CBI Agents, a small detachment of California Rangers, some California State Police, more CHP than you can shake a squad car at, and a half a dozen California State Marshalls. Plus the tough little CBI Inspector that was with me on Stein's Last Stand is here in Intensive care and raising nine kinds of hell to get out."

"Ouch," Aura said, her eyes widening. "I'll just bet that Mayor Dickie isn't happy."

"Mayor Dickie?" Stein's grin broadened.

"Yeah, Mayor Dickie, the Once and Every Other Mayor, my dad calls him," Aura said.

"Hah. I take it he's not a fan," Stein said.

"Oh, hell no," Aura said, "In fact – "

"Mr. Giles? What the hell happen- Oh, I'm sorry," Joyce Summers said, coming around into the waiting area trailed by Dawn and four other girls. A trio of other female voices said something that sounded like "Eeep!" but no one else was seen coming up.

"Detective Paul Stein, Miss... "

"Ah. Oh! I'm Mrs. Summers – it's Mrs.," Joyce said, "And Buffy – my daughter is here."

"Ah." Stein nodded. "So I've just heard. My condolences."

"I'm sorry it took so long, Mr. Giles," Joyce said, turning to him, "We came just as soon as I got your message, but then I had to divert by the Sheridan's, because the _rest_ of the crew insisted on coming up to see about their new sister, and... " she trailed off, and finally added, "It's been a bit of a mess."

"Quite understandable," Giles said, nodding.

"I am _definitely_ getting a mini-van," Joyce said, looking down at the small group of girls with exasperated affection.

"Rest of the crew?" Stein said, looking a bit bemused.

"Ah. Yes," Joyce said. "This is Dawn, my youngest and Buffy's sister. And this is Stephanie, ah, Ephasia, Sav, and Benjy, uh, Beverly."

"Benjy's fine," the shortest girl of the bunch said. "According to my sister, anyway."

"They're all, uh... "

"Friends of the family," the tallest girl, Dawn said. She put out her hand, and Stein took it and shook it gravely, smiling slightly. "Pleased. I'm Dawn."

"Right. Gathered that," Stein said. He raised his eyebrows, and added, "And the chorus of vanishing eeps?"

"We didn't hear anything," Benjy said. "You, Dawn?"

"Nope. Not a thing, Sarge."

"We're in mufti, Dawn, so it's Benjy or Bev," the little gray eyed girl said. "And what are _you_ smirking at, Mister no longer a super hero, huh?" she added, looking at Jesse.

"Who, me? Nuthing. Nope. Nothing at all," Jesse said, grinning at her.

"How is Buffy, Mr. Giles?" the tall blonde, Stephanie said, looking seriously up at the librarian and Ms. Calendar. All of the others riveted him with intense looks also. "And, what happened?"

"I, ah... I'm afraid we don't know yet. They haven't told us anything," Giles said.

"Oh, dear," Joyce said, putting a hand to her mouth and shaking her head slightly. "What happened? Your phone call was rushed, and you weren't quite, uh... "

"Coherent?" Giles said, nodding. "I'm afraid I wasn't, very."

Jesse sighed. "Remember the FYI vid? Creed paid us a repeat visit for round two."

"Oh, crap," Benjy said. The sentiment was echoed, albeit in stronger language, by Joyce.

"Yeah... " Jesse shrugged, and exchanged looks with Aura. "He... crap. He threw Angel into the front wall of the school and broke nearly every bone in his body, and then he stuck a crossbow bolt through Buffy."

"Ouch," several voices said, all of the girls wincing. Joyce gave him a horrified look, and then rounded on Giles.

"I _knew_ I shouldn't let her go up there today." Joyce said, "Why didn't you _stop_ her?"

"I- I- uh... "

"He _tried_. He _told_ her not to try and fight Creed if he showed up, Mrs. Summers," Jesse said. "_I_ told her. But... I don't think... she wouldn't... "

"I don't know her real well, but I don't think Buffy's built that way," Aura said. "She wasn't going to run and let Creed kill Jesse any more than, uh... "

"You were?" Willow said, smiling with an odd expression.

"Well," Aura shrugged.

"Creed was _playing_ with us, Mrs. Summers. He wasn't serious about it," Jesse said. He swallowed hard, his throat gone suddenly dry. "He'd been serious, he could have killed everyone on those steps and we couldn't have stopped him. He... "

"He just wanted to test Jesse and see how much was left over from last night," Aura said, "Apparently."

"Oh, gods," Joyce said, sinking into a chair. "This is like a _nightmare_. That you can't wake _up_ from. And _you_ – " she glared up at Stein, "What are you _doing_ about these things?"

"What little I can," Stein said. He shrugged, looking a bit helpless. "Which doesn't seem to be much, at the moment."

"I'm pretty sure that Paul's all right, Mrs. Summers," Aura said. She gave Stein a hard, steady look. "Right, Paul?"

"I'm going to try to be," Stein said. "Best I can."

"Our town is a _wreck_ after last night, Mrs. Summers," Jesse said. "Detective Stein has his hands full, based on what little I've seen, I'm thinking."

"He's our new interim police chief, I understand," Jenny said, "And it's been kind of a rough introduction."

"Boy, has it," Willow said, shaking her head. "Jesse's being understated. _Disaster_ area's a better word for this place."

"Chief? But- but... Chief Munroe?" Joyce looked at the group of them, shaking her head.

"Ran when that guy- _thing_, came to assault the station to get to Miss Chase and Mr. Harris," Stein said, shrugging. "No one's seen him since. I'm the highest ranking officer left, with the most seniority. Which isn't saying much considering that the Sunnydale PD has fewer than fifty effective active duty officers left after last night. And half of those are here," he added, waving around at the hospital. "I'm _still_ trying to sort out just what we really have available to work with."

"Oh." Joyce shook her head. "God. It just gets worse and worse. Well, what _happened_?"

"Uh, Jesse stopped him," Willow said. "Again. And then he passed out and fell face down. Giles grabbed Buffy and rushed her here while they were fighting."

"Wow," the girls with Mrs. Summers looked at Jesse and blinked, looking impressed.

"If it helps, which I, uh, I'm sure it probably does not, ah," Giles shrugged, "The fact that they have not come out to give us bad news is encouraging." Joyce stared at him, and Giles shrugged again. "Buffy heals quickly and well, generally. As long as she survives this initially, then she _should_ recover quite well."

"And I'm sure I don't want to ask how you know this," Joyce said, glaring at him.

"So... " Benjy and Dawn gave Stein significant looks, and then looked at Aura, raising their eyebrows. Jesse watched with interest, as did Willow, he noticed, as the rest of the girls gave Stein a serious, intense, and careful study.

Aura shrugged. "He knows that Jesse was the Iron Fist who fought Sabretooth on FYI last night in the cage match of the century. He let Tech-Sergeant Xander and Cordelia go last night when the Terminator was coming into the station after them. And I'm pretty sure he got _that_," she nodded at Stein's sling, "Trying to stop it from going after them afterward."

"Really?" Beverly and Dawn's eyes widened, and they and the other girls turned back to study Stein some more. "That's pretty cool, Mister," Benjy said. "Well, not cool that you got _shot_, but... " she shrugged.

"I know what you meant," Stein said, smiling. "And yeah. I did. But don't tell anyone – we're not supposed to let felons go."

"Hey! Xander's _not_ a felon," Dawn said, hotly. "Neither is _Cordelia_, darn it."

"Ah... "

"They're not!" Dawn folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Stein shrugged. "Sunnydale County Sheriff's has a different opinion on that one, I'm sorry. So does the CHP." He gave Aura an inquiring look.

"Ok. He's not a _criminal_, then," Dawn said, glaring up at him. "He had good reasons."

"You can talk around the kids, Paul, and around Mrs. Summers. But I'd be real careful what you promise around this little crew," Aura said, starting to grin. "And make sure you keep your word. 'Cause when you get crossways of them, you don't always come back in one piece."

"Aura," Joyce said, sighing. "I _told_ you not to encourage them."

"Sorry, Mrs. Summers."

"I'll keep that in mind," Stein said.

"I think you should know, Paul," Aura said, looking at Stein seriously, "That Benjy led forty-one nine to eleven year olds across most of lower Sunnydale last night through _all_ of that, with nothing but a wrist rocket, a few transformed items, and a lot of guts and ingenuity. Wasn't joking when I said they're no one to take lightly."

"Really?" Stein's eyes widened, and he looked at Joyce, and Mr. Giles, both of whom nodded. "Well... I am impressed then."

"Actually, twenty-six when we started, plus one, sir," Benjy said. "We picked up the rest later. And we lost three, uh, four. So it's not as impressive as Aura said."

"It is _too_," Dawn said.

"I'm thinking that's impressive enough," Stein said.

"Are you sure you should be telling the detective all this, Aura?" Joyce said, frowning. "And talking about some of these... things?"

"Yeah... he's an old friend of Cordelia and her family," Aura said. "Like I was telling Giles and Ms. Calendar.

Stein looked at Joyce, winked, and then looked at Aura, and said, slowly and distinctly, "I see no-_think! _I hear no-_think! _I know no-_think!_"

Giles snickered, hiding a grin. "Ah. A fellow fan of the classics, I see."

"Hey," Stein said, deadpan. "_We_ were around when they were the _currents_, Dr. Giles."

"Sadly, all too true."

Stein sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets, and Jesse watched him carefully, still unable to completely swallow a grin. "Ok, believe me. Given all the other things with this group that I'm carefully not seeing? Whatever you've got to say that sheds some light on last night? Unless it involves a major Federal felony, or a Presidential assassination, I don't think one or two more bizarre things are going to stretch me too much." Stein paused, looking thoughtful. "Actually, scratch that last: I don't care all that much for our current Philanderer in Chief. Go ahead and shoot him all you want. Ice the Mayor too, while you're at it." He grinned.

Dawn snickered, and nudged Benjy. "I think I like him."

"No sir," the taller blonde girl, Stephanie said, looking serious. "We don't do political or any other kind of assassinations."

"Ah. That's a relief," Stein said. "We are _definitely_ going to have that serious talk, though, Dr. Giles, and the rest of you guys. And soon."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Everette Circle, Whispering Hills neighborhood, Sunnydale, __Night__ 8:35pm –_

"Going somewhere, Chief?"

"Gah!" Bob Munroe whirled, dropping one of the suitcases he had been loading into the back of his Lincoln Navigator, and fumbling the other in the process. "Trask! What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh, please," the tall, slender male vampire rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure even you can manage to figure that one out."

"And, uh, no... just going to visit my, uh," Bob Munroe looked wildly around from side to side as he was stammering. "Ex-wife."

"Really long conjugal visit," Trask said, smiling slightly. He narrowed his black eyes into a narrow eyed squint that made his harshly planed and hawk nosed face look suddenly and extremely menacing. "Our esteemed Mayor is not very happy with you, Chief."

"I- I- "

"Or should I say, _former_ Chief Munroe," Trask said.

"Hey! You and Wilkins weren't _there_," Munroe said, his face starting to turn red. He stuck his chin out belligerently. "You didn't see that thing! It was killing everyone, and it was unstoppable, dammit!"

"Don't curse. The Mayor doesn't approve of it," Trask said, mildly. "Especially not in public officials."

"Fuck Wilkins and fuck his approval, Trask. And fuck you!"

"Tsk tsk. Such language." Trask shook his head, looking sadly at the overweight former police chief. "You were given distinct orders. Keep Chase and Harris safe. Make sure that nothing happens to any of Buffy Summers' associates, period. None of them."

"Yeah?" Munroe's eyes narrowed. "I didn't see you helping any with that."

Trask stuck a long, slender black cigar into the corner of his mouth, and took his time lighting it and puffing it to a nice glow. Munroe watched him like a rabbit to a snake, slow sweat starting to trickle down the side of his face.

"I was around. Keeping an eye on some of the others," Trask said, smiling thinly. "Not that they _needed_ direct intervention. Did you know that several of those _kids_ manged to take down not only William the Bloody, but that fucking Creed monster too? And one of them damned near killed Drusilla later. Most impressive." He laughed, shaking his head wonderingly. "_They_ were doing a better job than the Sunnydale Police Department."

"What do you want, Trask?" Munroe glared at the vampire. "You know you can't do anything to me. Wilkins won't allow it."

"That was then, Bob," Trask said.

Munroe's eyes widened at that, and he reached under his windbreaker suddenly, his hand clawing at a holster behind his hip. Then his back arched and his mouth opened into a silent rictus of agony as the two vampires standing behind him sank their teeth into either side of his neck. The heavy .44 Magnum revolver clattered to the driveway, falling from a hand gone abruptly limp.

"This is now." Trask walked over slowly as the other pair let Bob Munroe's dead weight slide limply to the concrete. "Tsk tsk. Hell of a way to treat a nice firearm. Heh. Colt Anaconda... serious firepower for a cowardly fuck like you, Bob."

He nudged the body with a toe, slipping the magnum revolver into his waistband behind a hip.

"Get rid of him," he said to the other two. "Dump his fat ass somewhere where he'll be found... oh, like, maybe on the field at the Sunnydale Sports Complex. And finish loading his car – park it somewhere, like, in airport long term where it'll be clear that he was bugging out completely."

"Right," one of them said, nodding as he slid out of game face.

"Shoulda let us turn him," the other one said. "He'd probably have been a lot more useful as a vamp. More reliable, too."

"Nah. Be a disgrace to our entire profession," Trask said. "Stein might actually be a pretty decent Chief. Even if he's _not_ going to be controllable."

"Want us to deal with Stein, next?"

"No. Leave him strictly alone," Trask said. "Next, we pay our esteemed Assistant Chief and then Principal Snyder a visit."

"Making a list, and clearing it twice," the first vampire said, grinning.

"'Cause we already _know_ who's been naughty and nice," the other one said, grinning back.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: Watcher's Council HQ, London, England, __Early __Morning 4:45am –_

"More tea, Mr. Travers?"

"Oh, thank you, Reginald," Quentin Travers opened his grainy eyes, and rubbed at them tiredly.

The tall, slender and dark haired young man who had spoken straightened after setting down the tea service on Traver's desk. "Spot of brandy in it, perhaps."

"And _that_ would be lovely," Travers said, chuckling. "However, I'm afraid that at this point, even a small blemish of brandy would render me incoherent and nearly unconscious."

"It has been a rather long day, has it not," Reginald Pemberton said. He seated himself in the high back, comfortable chair at the corner of Traver's desk, suddenly transforming himself from a possible manservant, into an associate.

Indeed, the tall, youthful man was no manservant nor housekeeper, but the Watcher's Council's youngest, most powerful, and most skilled mage. And Quentin Travers' assistant, supernatural bodyguard, and right hand man.

"One of the longest," Travers said, agreeably. He served himself a cup of Earl Gray, waving a hand idly toward the side board. "Do help yourself, however. My brandy is yours."

"Of course." Pemberton leaned forward and selected a decanter, tipping a not too generous amount into his cup.

"Seemingly even longer than that interminable one where we were awaiting the outcome of that mess with the Pergamum Codex during the spring," Travers said. "And, of course, that bastard Wyndam-Pryce is losing not a moment's opportunity to agitate for the removal of the Summers girl, with all of his cronies in the Traditionals behind him."

"Would you like for me to turn him into a newt?" Pemberton said, smiling slightly as he sipped at his brandied tea.

"Oh, would you, please?"

"Unfortunately, no," Pemberton said, shaking his head. "His mass and personality would make it difficult to reduce him to anything smaller than a particularly large Bufo Marinus."

Travers shuddered. "No thank you, then. I saw quite enough of those during that Melbourne business." He chuckled nastily, and added, "Roger _would_ make a particularly unlovely cane toad however. Perhaps as a birthday present for me, later."

"He is still agitating for the removal of Rupert Giles, then?" Pemberton asked.

"Oh yes," Travers said, nodding. "And the replacement of Rupert with that ungainly son of his. As well as the retirement of Slayer Summers and Slayer Young, and young Wesley's assignment as the Watcher for both of the presumed new Slayers that would arise."

"Tsk."

"So. Speaking of," Travers said, his eyes narrowing, "What precisely is going on in that infernal town of Rupert's, anyway? It has been all over the Colonial news networks of late, since the evening of Samhain, as a matter of fact. Have we been able to determine?"

"No. Or, at least, not with any certainty," Pemberton said, shaking his head. "And phone calls to Rupert Giles have netted nothing more than his answerphone, I'm afraid."

"He is quite probably having his hands full, at the moment," Travers said. "No doubt his Slayer is up to her blonde, vapid little eyebrows in the midst of whatever it is. Along with her civilian cohorts..."

"One of the things, I'm certain, that has Pryce and the Traditionals up in arms," Pemberton said, sighing.

"Oh, quite. And no small number of my Conservatives," Travers said, rolling his eyes. "Never mind that Summers is one of the most successful Slayers we've had since Elora Ménard in the eleven hundreds."

"Please, do _not_ make that comparison in open Council, I beg of you," Pemberton said, shuddering. "Producing _that_ many cane toads in quick succession would leave me comatose."

"Oh, dear God no," Travers said, with a mild shudder of his own. "Centuries later, people _still_ go into a blind panic at the thought of another Ménard Slayer. And the intra-Council civil war that resulted from that whole business."

"And both Evelyn Giles and his mother Regina waste no opportunity to hold up her prior example as a model for precisely why the Reformationists should be allowed to remodel the Slayer system," Pemberton said, nodding. "Not that it does not require it, however... "

"But they seem to have zero appreciation for the fact of just how finely balanced we are against having the Traditionals usurp control of the High Council, yes yes," Travers said. "I _am_ aware, Reginald. Bad enough that Roger's backers control a great deal of the Council's purse strings."

"Quite. My apologies, sir."

"Ah." Travers waved that off, irritably. "So. What can you tell me? Anything?"

"Should I call in Miss Harkness, Gerald Robson, and the Coven Representative for the full report?" Pemberton said, "Or would the precis suffice?"

"Precis only, by all means," Travers said, tiredly. "By all means, if they have _not_ done so already, request and require Agatha, Dr. Robson, and Ms. Carnahan to _retire_ for the nonce, for God's sake. At least _some_ of us should get some rest."

"Quite. Very well... " Pemberton paused for a moment, appearing to be gathering his thoughts. "Virtually the entirety of Southern California, from an area just south of Monterrey, to San Diego, and west into the euphemistically styled 'Big Valley' region, is nearly impenetrable to scrying and mystical sensing at the moment. And has been, since around five-ish on Friday evening, California time. The very best that Agatha Harkness' circle and the Devon Coven can inform me of is that there appears to have been a massive eruption of Chaos magic covering that area – with distinctive overtones of some larger being mixed in."

"Chaos magic?" Travers shook his head. "Ethan buggering _Rayne_," he said, almost spitting the name. "We really _should_ have given him the death sentence after that business with Eyghon the Sleepwalker."

Nodding, Pemberton said, "Except that the Giles family wouldn't have been amenable: it would have required giving the then young Rupert the same verdict. And, as well – "

"Yes, I _am_ aware," Travers said. "Ethan is one of _those_ Raynes, and our relations with the Legacy were, and are, quite strained enough. Ethan and Derek's grandfather would have had the entire then High Council assassinated." He shook his head, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Rayne performed a similarly massive stunt in the Detroit Area, not so many years ago, on Devil's Night."

"Yes," Pemberton said, nodding. "In this particular 'stunt', judging by the televised reports, and going by what little our Seers are able to acquire and interpret, a rather large number of people seem to have been transformed into whatever costumed personae they adopted for the evening."

"Oh, dear lord."

"Quite. Further," Pemberton sighed, and said, "Kendra Young's Watcher, um... "

"Dr. Samuel Zabuto," Travers said.

"Quite. Dr. Zabuto found portents stating that a rather massive dark power was to arise on the California Hellmouth at some point during that week, but nothing more specific. He sent word to us, and then sent his Slayer with instructions to discover the source, and prevent it."

"Obviously, she was not successful," Travers said, his voice exceedingly dry. "We _were_ informed, then?"

"Well... the young Watcher trainee manning, or womanning, rather, the message center believed him to be a crank, and filed it rather than passing it immediately to my office."

"Oh, dear lord. And so it gets worse," Travers said.

"I could have her shot, of course," Pemberton said, a faint smile starting to twitch at the edges of his lips.

"Oh God no. She is no doubt the daughter or niece of someone who's voting blocks I require."

"It really _wouldn't_ be any great trouble," Pemberton said. Travers glared at him, and he subsided, still smiling. "Sorry. I fear I am a bit punchy as well, right now. Perhaps a more fitting chastisement would be to promote her laterally above her pay grade."

"Hah. Yes... praise her lavishly, and then assign her to overseeing, um," Travers snapped his fingers, "Phule and his trouble shooters."

"Phule's Goldbrickers? My, we _are_ vindictive tonight, aren't we?" Pemberton chuckled. "Shooting her would be kinder."

"I am in no mood for kindness," Travers said, snickering. "Do go on."

"Yes, well... Naturally, Dr. Zabuto is champing at the bit, and demanding to be allowed to transport himself to Sunnydale to determine what has happened to his, er, Slayer."

"We do not know what has become of her?" Travers said, his eyes widening. He closed them tiredly, almost immediately. "No, of course we don't. Why should anything have gone well, or even competently? Zabuto did instruct her to make contact with Slayer Summers and Rupert, did he not? And Summers' associates?"

"Ah," Pemberton shifted uncomfortably, looking away.

"No, don't bother telling me."

"I fear that it seems that Roger Wyndam-Pryce took it upon his authority as Council Speaker to override the low Council's ruling that Kendra and her Watcher be informed of Slayer Summers, ah, less than permanent demise."

"I'll kill him," Travers said. "No. Killing is too good for him. I'll hunt down Dr. Barlowe and have _him_ take that idiotic ponce out on one of his extra planar expeditions. To, ah, Quor Toth, I believe, yes."

"Quite. I'll make note of it and have a memo sent out," Pemberton said, nodding. "And, of course, given the disruption in our scrying and seeing capabilities, no one is quite certain of the current fate or disposition of Slayer Summers, either. She was _last _seen on News Santa Barbara atop some water tower in Sunnydale, wearing a Princess costume and standing beside a rather large simian of some sort."

"Oh, bloody wonderful," Travers said. "So, she perhaps was one of the victims of the costume mishap?"

"Perhaps," Pemberton said. "And at least two of her associates, a Miss Chase, and a young Mr. Harris, were in the custody of the police just prior to the assault that left the Sunnydale Police Department nearly annihilated."

"Oh, dear god," Travers said, his eyes widening. "Did they _survive?_"

"No one knows as of yet, at least that has been able or willing to answer my queries, no," Pemberton said, shrugging.

"What a bleeding fiasco. You _do_ know that Cordelia Chase's father and grandfather are among the wealthiest men in Southern California, correct?"

"I am aware, yes," Pemberton said. "I fear that Randall Chase and his wife are listed as being among the deceased victims of last night's, ah, festivities."

"Again, oh dear God." Travers shook his head. "You're probably aware," he said, "That while I am not in the least bit enamoured of Slayer Summers' and Rupert's decision to allow Summers' teenage associates to know of and participate in her slaying activities, the fact does remain that they have contributed heavily to her successes, by all reports."

"Yes," Pemberton said, nodding. "Your frequent derisive and mocking commentary on Miss Summers', ah, 'Nancy Drew Cohort' as you've put it, _has_ made your feelings exceedingly clear."

"Harrumph," Travers said, eying his assistant with some approbation. He sighed heavily, then, and his expression cleared. "Yes, well... I certainly never meant to imply that I would wish for anything untoward to happen to them. _Especially_ not to the daughter of someone as well connected as Cordelia Chase's father."

"Of course. That _would_ make it difficult to potentially elicit financial and other contributions and considerations from Mr. Chase on his daughter's behalf, should the occasion arise."

"You're pushing it, Reginald," Travers said.

"Ah. Of course. My apologies, sir."

"Ah well," Travers shook his head, letting it go. "That forlorn hope is now as obviously dead as the young Miss Chase's parents. I do hope that she has managed to not become so as well."

"Well... " Pemberton paused, and then shrugged, "While casualty reports from last night are still incomplete, Miss Chase and young Mr. Harris' names are _not_ listed amongst the ones that _have_ been released."

"Good, good." Travers sighed heavily, and said, "Well, do please inform Dr. Zabuto that of _course_ he is to proceed if he wishes. It would be nice to at least have a man on the ground, so to speak, seeing as how Rupert seems to be incommunicado. Is Zabuto even able to travel?"

"Apparently, he manages quite well in his wheel chair, and he can get his son to assist him," Pemberton said, nodding. "Additionally... " he paused, sighing, "According to Dr. Robson, we appear to have had a Slayer Activation. In Boston."

"_Boston?_ As in, the Boston in the _United States_, Boston? Do we even have a tracked Potential or overseen Slayer in Waiting there?"

"Not that we were aware of. However, we _do_ apparently have a _Slayer_ there now."

"I know that I am becoming repetitive, but, oh dear God," Travers said. "I am beginning to be quite regretful that I asked for an update, now. Who is... ah. Dr. Dormer is our woman on the ground there. Inform her that she is to, posthaste and forthwith, attempt to locate our new Slayer and take her under her wing. I'll do it on my Authority as Council Head, and if Roger has issues with it, I _will_ kill him."

"Heh. Quite," Pemberton said, nodding. "And I already have spoken with Diana Dormer. She is beginning to make the search as of early yesterday morning, as a matter of fact."

"Oh. Quite excellent," Travers said. "Thank you. Blast. Then we may have lost one of the current Slayers. Hrmm."

"Quite probably."

"We truly need an observer on the ground in Sunnydale. One who is _not_ actively tied in with Rupert and his bunch... " Travers said. "Ah. Make contact with Bernard Crowley in Los Angeles. His adopted son, I believe, recently graduated and is looking at a career in the hierarchy of the American School System, such as it is. See if we have any possible strings that we can pull, or _manufacture_ some, if needed, and have that hideous toad that Rupert has reported removed from the Principal position at that dreadful Secondary School, and have young, ah... "

"Wood? Robin Wood, I believe," Pemberton said.

"Yes yes, have Wood apply there for the position." Travers sighed. "And do, please, make contact with Rupert Giles at all costs, and get a report. I don't care if you have to enchant a broomstick and _fly_ across the Atlantic to do so."

"We attempt to avoid that, these days," Pemberton said, deadpan. "It has been noted that it tends to get us talked about. We prefer to use those newfangled aeroplanes, just like the Muggles do."

Travers grinned at him. "You've been reading those bloody Potter books again, haven't you. Start waving a wand around me, and I'll feed it to you."

"Hah. I'll certainly keep that in mind. Does that mean that the long, black robes and the pointed hat are not acceptable office wear, either?"

"Wear _those_, and I'll feed you to Agatha Harkness."

"Oh, dear God no," Pemberton said, shuddering dramatically. "One can still hear the fading screams of the _last_ young Wizard she apprenticed, up on the battlements at Castle Drogo, I understand."

"Hah. It is _not_ a rumour, I fear," Travers said. "I've heard them. _Most_ unsettling."

"I'm certain they are." Both men grinned at each other, mirthlessly. "Ah. You will be, possibly not happy, per se, but at least satisfied to know that Slayer Kendra was alive at least up to a certain point on Friday night. She slew William the Bloody, I'm told, in conjunction with several other people. Ah, live and on FYI news... I haven't seen the footage myself, as of yet."

"Hrmm. Excellent. A mixed blessing, but excellent," Travers said, leaning back. "I do believe I'll have a splash of that brandy after all. This calls for celebration. Now, if she could be persuaded to slay that ensouled Angelus that _Rupert's_ Slayer insists on keeping as a pet, we would be truly blessed... "

"Would you like for me to have Phule instructed to make ready to take his Goldbrickers to the Hellmouth? I'm certain they can handle that task with only, ah, minor devastation to the surrounding region," Pemberton asked, his lips twitching at the corners. "I understand that the collateral damages and associated casualties during their last mission were quite within acceptable parameters, for once."

Travers stared at him. "Don't _make_ me kill you as well, Reginald. I _will_, you know."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: Lowell House UCS Campus, Sunnydale, __Night__9__:45pm –_

Captain Riley Finn, United States Army Ranger, and on current detached duty to the Defense Research Initiative Command, watched carefully as Major Buckley's men went about making their preparations and giving final checks to their weapons.

Finally, he exchanged sidelong glances with Lieutenant Forrest Gates, shrugged, and went over to where Chelsey, Chet, and the Eurasian Mr. Cheng were giving their weapons a final check and rub down by the Buckley's communications station. Miller shrugged and wandered over after him, eying the weapons, and watching and listening to the other team with intent interest.

"Those are a bit light for what we're dealing with, don't you think?" Finn said, indicating the apparent M-16/AR-15 pattern rifles the two men were reassembling.

"These? Naw," Cheng said. "Modified AR-15, .50 Beowulf, and," he nodded to Chelsey's weapon, ".458 SOCOM."

"The rest are AR-10 pattern in .325 Winchester Short Magnum, with 10mm Uzi's or MP5-10s for close work and room clearance," Chelsey said, "Except for the GPMG, which is a bit heavier. 8mm Remington Magnum on a custom manufactured SIG 710 GPMG platform. We use heavily modified and re-manufactured HK-21's in .325 WSM as our light machineguns and squad autos."

Chet nodded and said, "And then there's the heavies, like the SMAW and the Carl Gustav."

"Sidearms are LAR Grizzly in .45 Winchester Mag," Cheng said.

"Aside from frigging Barkie's hogleg and cannon," Chet said.

Finn had noted Barkley's decidedly non-regulation heavy, scoped single action and Patton style belt and holster, once Buckley's odd little group had begun to gear up. That and the heavy barreled M-21 style semi-auto rifle. He now gave her an inquiring look and a curious glance at her sidearm.

"Freedom Arms single action in .500 Linebaugh," Barkley said, her voice and expression matter of fact. "And a McKann Industries Garand in .458 Winchester Magnum modified to accept an altered BAR magazine. My partner's is a McKann in .338 Winchester Mag."

Finn whistled softly, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, and we never have figured out what someone who always babysits the surveillance gear and the Comm weenie at the recon base needs the heavy weaponry for," Chelsey said, winking at Chet. "But Barkie does like her firepower."

Barkley held up a stiffened middle finger. "All due respect, sir, sit on this and spin," she said. "Regulations say that as long as it's effective, we can carry whatever we can qualify with. And I happen to be the best shot in the Black Company. Long _or_ short arm."

"Friggin' cowgirl," Chet said, rolling his eyes.

"That would be friggin' _gunfighter_ girl, Deck Ape, and don't you forget it."

"And hey, us queers in the rear _do_ get overrun on occasion, dude," Barkley's console mate said. "Remember Costa Rica?"

"Don't remind me," Chelsey said, making a face. "I'm still trying to _forget_ Cluster-fuck City."

"Good luck, sir," Barkley said, smirking, "And how's that working out for you?"

"The Black Company?" Miller said, his expression curious.

"Unofficial designation," Chelsey said. "Like in the novels?" Miller gave him a blank look, and a slight shake of the head.

"A fictional elite military company that specializes in dealing with both conventional and... extremely _un_conventional forces and adversaries," Barkley explained.

"And since we don't exist," Chet said, "We're the next best thing to fictional. Hence: the Black Company. Also occasionally known as Phantasm Force. And as the Dendarii."

Finn shook his head. "Heavy and unconventional stuff," he said, "We issue the Beretta in .40 S&W, with the Kimber Elite in 10mm as an optional sidearm. And the pre-production FN SCAR-H in 7.62mm, with the EGLM for small arms. Special order requisitions, I'm given to understand. And our specials." He winced internally, not letting it show outwardly.

Buckley's crew had been decidedly _un_impressed with the experimental electromagnetic phased electron beam weapons, and their overslung coil guns. He more than half expected a disparaging comment and wasn't disappointed...

"All good weapons, 'ceptin' maybe the Specials, which we ain't sure about," Chelsey said. "We used to issue the Para-ordnance in .45 ACP/.460 Rowland, ourselves. But the first time something with far too many teeth soaks up fourteen rounds of even moderately high velocity .45 ACP hollow point and keeps coming, you start to figure that Colonel Cooper may not have foreseen all contingencies."

"And then there's Leap's .408 Chey-tac and Chet's Barrett. We really _have_ done this before, Captain," Cheng said, not condescendingly, just stating a fact.

"Not our first rodeo, nope," Chet said, nodding. "We tend to need to shoot things that are big, tough, armor plated, and with more teeth than the Osmond family. We like for something that's shot to _stay_ shot."

"Yup," Barkley said, looking up from the Surveillance console. "We're the U.S. Military's Ghost Busters. We don't _exist_, and we _fight_ the things that don't exist. And We. Don't. Lose. _Ever_."

"Ooh rah!" Leaphorn called over, grinning. "Rangers lead the way!"

"Except where they're following the SEALS," Chet said, smiling.

"Or Force Recon," Chelsey added.

"Hah. You guys wish," Barkley said. "All Squids are good for is driving Marines around."

"Hey now, that was unkind and uncalled for," Chet said, looking hurt.

"It so was," Barkley nodded solemnly. "I'd say I'm sorry, except that I'm, like, not."

"Frigging ground pounder," Chesley said, shaking his head sadly. "Sorry is a horribly inadequate word for you."

"'Least she's not a Zoomie," Allred said.

"Hey, I heard that," someone on the other side of the room called over.

"You were _meant_ to, Mitchell," Allred called back.

"Could be worse," Chet said, grinning. "He _could_ be a Track Toad."

Barkley grinned at him, and then turned back to checking the camera feeds where she and her associate had tapped into Sunnydale's traffic and surveillance camera system. "Cams are _go_. Greens all the way. Telemetry is _go_. Green board all the way. Hey, you'll be happy to know that all of you are alive, except for the Zoomie, whom we are not sure about."

"Naw. Mitch is only dead from the neck up, and waist down," another voice called over.

"Comm check," Allred said, quietly. "Testing, testing," He cocked his head, apparently listening, and Finn saw several of the people around him sub-vocalizing. "Comm check complete. Green lights all the way. Comms are _go_."

"Yeppers," Barkley said. "Thundercats ho!"

"Look, Miss," Finn said, putting on his best boyish and disarming expression. "I'm seeing that we got off on the wrong foot, completely."

"It happens," Barkley said, shrugging. "Don't sweat it, Captain."

"Yeah. As you say, we are on the same team," Chelsey said.

"Until we're not," Chet added, grinning.

"So, one last confirmation, Cap'n," Allred, the Comm Specialist said. "You and Dr. Walsh say that it is _not_ critical to capture the hostile alive, err, functioning?"

"Correct, Mr. Allred," Finn said, nodding. "Dr. Walsh feels certain that as long as the brain – or brains, we're not sure on that – are intact, then it can be analyzed and reverse engineered to learn about its functioning. Plus, observation of its functions under field conditions, of course."

"You mean while it's shooting us up," Barkley said.

"We'll do our best to not let that happen," Finn said, smiling.

"And our best is _always_ good enough! Ooh rah!" Chelsey said, smiling.

"Damn straight," Barkley said, "And there _is_ no difference between theory and practice, except in practice."

"Just like there _is_ no difference between bench rest and field accuracy," Leaphorn called over.

"Eggs-actally."

"All right people, we are operational," Major Buckley called out, entering the room. "Let's pack it up and get ready to move 'em out."

"You heard the man," Chelsey said. "Saddle up."

Everyone muttered or called out good natured complaints and jokes, and then Buckley said, "All right. A moment of silence please, followed by the Mercenaries Toast."

Everyone on Buckley's team closed their eyes and bowed heads, briefly, and then raised them. Opening their eyes, they called out, almost in unison, "Everyone comes back!"

"Yup. Remember: it's a goal, not a promise," Buckley said, smiling.

In a clear soprano, Barkley hummed a few notes, and then sang softly, "_Light the __c__andles, __r__aise__ the __d__rawbridge__, __s__et the __l__ocks __u__pon the __d__oor__s__ – "_ as Finn and the rest of his people started and then watched in amazement.

Chelsey joined in after, his voice a clean baritone, "For _We __h__ave __s__een the __s__hadows __c__oming, __l__ike a __t__housand __n__ights __b__efore..."_

Followed by several of the others, in various ranges of vocal accomplishment, "_Like a Knight within his __c__astle, in some __m__edieval __g__ame – "_

Finally, all of them joined on the last line and what Finn assumed was the chorus, _"We __f__oresee __t__errible __t__roubles, and __y__et __w__e __s__tand __h__ere __j__ust the __s__ame... _

_Oh... We don't wanna do the dirty work, oh yeah_

_We refuse to do your dirty works, no more_

_But someone's gotta do the dirty work, so yeah..."_

Finn blinked as the odd and yet touching song died out. Miller frowned, and said, "Dirty Work? By Steely Dan?"

"Our own version, anyway," Barkley said. "Filked a bit to _our_ requirements. Because _we_ stand in the way of the darkness, and _we_ do the dirty work so that others can rest easy in their beds at night."

"Yup. Damned straight," Chelsey said, with the others nodding.

"Rough men," Chet said, "And women," he added, inclining his head to Barkley.

"None rougher," she said. She gave Finn a hard and steady look, and he knew suddenly that 'it happens' and 'don't sweat it' had been an acknowledgment, not an apology. "Hell, we could be wrong, and you guys could be right. You could be the wave of the future in this new era, and our attitudes horribly outdated, anachronistic, and atavistic." Her eyes narrowed, and she added, "But – make zero mistake, Captain. The day that that becomes clear, then I am _out_ of this man's army. For it is no longer what I gave my oath to, and _it_ will have become the enemies domestic. Understood?"

"Understood, uh, Miss," Finn said. He swallowed hard, his mouth gone suddenly dry under that cold, clear, and unflinching gaze. "But... are you sure that's your call to make?"

"Who better, Captain?" Chet said, his voice and expression honestly curious. "Politicians? And nine black robed vultures determining what our oaths and the Constitution means _this_ week?"

"We can _read_, Captain. And there ain't _nothing_ wrong with our comprehension skills," Barkley said, her tone light. "The U.S. Military don't _hire_ no functional illiterates. Nor does West Point turn out graduates who's sense of history ends at last week."

Cheng nodded, his face expressionless. "There will be no Sand Creeks or Bonus March massacres on the Black Company's watch."

"All right, let's rock and roll, people," Major Buckley called out. "Gear check in five, embarkation in ten. We roll in fifteen."

"You heard that man, boyz and gurlz," Chelsey called, slinging his small arms. "Head 'em up, move 'em out."

Riley nodded and pulled down his headset microphone, and said, quietly, "All right. Team Lilac, we're gone. Move out and meet up." He looked over at Miller, "Lieutenant? You, Gates, and Teams Sumac and Orchid have the base."

"Hey, let's not get dead out there, right?" Barkley said. "I've heard that it purely ruins your day."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, __Night __1__0__:35__p__m –_

Biting pensively at her lower lip, Cordelia studied her reflection in the mirror in the bathroom of Rory's larger guest bedroom. Currently, she was trying indecisively to choose between two sets of sleepwear...

No. Be honest, Chase. Between one set of sleepwear, and one set of enthusiastically _not_ sleeping wear. Cordelia shook her head. She never _would_ understand what had possessed her to make the impulsive decision to grab and throw the backless, sheer, black lace chemise and matching sheer black lace boy shorts into her overnight bag along with her sleep t-shirts and regular gym shorts.

Possessed. That's a good word for it.

It _certainly_ hadn't been because she'd ever really entertained the idea of actually sleeping – no, having _sex_ with – Tech-sergeant _Hicks_ while he was possessing and wearing Xander's body like a meat puppet. _Especially_ not with her parents and maid lying dead and cooling downstairs because of Hick's bad decision.

Bullshit. Again, be honest with yourself, Chase, You understand _perfectly_ why you grabbed them and packed them. Same reason you slid off into Pharmaceuticals to grab the box of Trojans sitting there on the counter in front of you.

Grrf.

Because a sneaky, traitorous part of you was expecting and hoping for just what happened to happen: for Hicks to go the fuck away, back to wherever he came from, and leave you with a _different _choice to make.

And a different person to make it with.

The choice that had been working away in the back of your mind ever since you were sitting in that damned stolen SUV questioning Hicks and the stunning realization of just who the parents of the Savior of Humanity were had jumped up and smacked you right straight in the brain pan, duh. With all of the dizzying, breathtaking, worldview breaking implications that went along with it.

First and foremost of which was: at some point, Cordelia Chase was going to figure out and face up to the fact that she and Alexander Harris had never quit being each other's worst halves since freaking kindergarten and the first fucking grade.

And that at some point, she and Xander were not only going to sleep together – read: have wild hot monkey sex, not much of the sleeping there – but they were going to have a _child_ together.

_Sure_, Xander, it's _not_ graven in stone. Nope. No sir. Not at _all_, dumb ass.

It's just been fucking _inevitable_ ever since you married me in your parent's fucking back yard with a gods be damned _gumball_ machine ring at the age of freaking _s__even_.

Yup. No fate my gorgeous tight young ass.

Grrrr.

Oh, and no pressure. We and Ethan fucking Rayne just so happen to have brought freaking _Skynet_ into existence. And _now_ we have to do something about it. Just like in the fucking movie. Asshole.

Double grrrr.

Because apparently, _this_ is something that Little Miss Slays A Lot can't save the world from, this time.

Triple grrrrr.

And because no matter _what_ I do to you, or how _hard _I drive you away, or how much fun I make of you, _you_ have to keep on being my freaking klutzy Black Knight just like when we were little, and keep saving my idiot _life_, damn you. And putting on your beat up clunky armor and waving your bent damned sword and walking through freaking _fire_ for me.

God I hate your idiot ass and that stupid half grin...

Quadruple grrr. Or is that quintuple?

And because a traitorous part of me has _apparently_ been waiting My. Whole. Damned. Idiot. Life. for the rest of me to wake up and realize that I don't really hate your idiotic ass.

And gee, I lost track of how many grrrr's we were up to now.

Oh, and because I am so _not_ going to die a virgin, and when _I_ have sex, it is so _not_ going to be with some brain dead egotistical jock who just happens to have a Porsche and who basically wants my tits and a lead in to marrying Daddy's money. And a trophy wife, plus the bragging rights on finally being the one to nail stuck up Cordelia Chase, Professional Ice Princess.

Grrrr again.

Oh, right. Great choice, Cordelia. _Instead_, it'll be with the dorky _moron_ who kept you _out_ all night making out on the beach on midsummer's day and then got you freaking _grounded_ for six _weeks_, in the summer between eighth and ninth grade, doh!

_And_ who was stupid enough to walk _away_ and let you go back to hating him. Freaking loser.

Grrrrr the last, dammit.

Well, that takes care of _that_ little choice.

Guess the damned sleep t-shirt stays on the bathroom counter.

But the freaking _Trojans_ are coming with me.

I'm not _that_ brain dead _yet_, thank you very much.

Fuck the future.

* * *

.


	10. Broken Field Maneuvers

**Chapter Forty-five: Broken Field Maneuvers...**

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, __Night__ 1__0__:40__p__m –_

"Wow."

Cordelia smirked as she saw Xander's jaw drop open once he looked up and saw her. She closed the bathroom door behind her, and leaned back against it, her hands behind her still clasped around the knob.

Xander swallowed hard, his eyes widening. "Wow," he said, again.

"Gee, I've rendered you speechless," Cordelia said. "Score!"

"Ah... yeah," Xander said, nodding with his eyes somewhere about chest level on her. "Speech, uh, what?"

"Eyes up, Dork," Cordelia said. "Jeeze, I'm _sure_ you've seen tits before, Xander."

"Ah, yeah... " Xander nodded, dragging his eyes up to her face. It looked like a painful process. Cordelia's smirk broadened. "Uh huh. Tits? What?" he blinked at her.

"Oh for crying out loud," Cordelia said, rolling her eyes. "I didn't break you, did I? 'Cause I so left my repair kit at home."

"Ah. Nope. Broken, not," Xander said, nodding furiously. "Functional, I am yes?"

"Yoda you are not, dumb ass."

"Hah. Yeah... " Xander apparently rebooted his brain or something, because his eyes unglazed and he managed to focus on her eyes. "Wow. Uh, what are you doing, Cordy?"

"Well, duh. I got dressed for _bed_, gee," Cordelia said. "I'd have thought that would be, like, obvious. Even to _you_."

"Oh, yeah, riiggghhhttt, Cordy. And you dress like that every night for bed, uh huh," Xander said, some of his natural sarcasm coming back. Fast recovery, Cordelia thought. Cool. "I _so_ buy that, uh huh."

"Well, I wasn't planning to _sell_ it to you, exactly," Cordelia said. "'Cause that's, like, tres tacky and everything."

"Snerk." Xander shook his head, that lopsided grin starting to spread across his lips. "Not what I meant, Cordy. But hey – I _think_ I have a few bucks to spare."

"Ah! You _did_ not just!" Cordelia let her eyes widen dramatically. "Oh, yeah, right. Like _you_ could afford me."

The grin went all the way across, and went completely lopsided, going all the way to the eyes now. "Yeah. _Way_ too high dollar for the likes of me." Xander stood, walking slowly up to her, until he was standing right in front, almost but not quite right up to her. He leaned forward, propping himself on the door with a hand flat against it on either side of her head.

"Damn straight, doofus," Cordelia said, her breath catching in her throat slightly. "_You'd_ have to take out a loan. And with _your_ collateral?"

"Uh huh. Not a hope in hell," Xander said. He leaned forward slowly, bending his head until he captured her lips.

"Umm." Cordelia blinked suddenly, opening her eyes and wondering where the last several days went. Days? Minutes. Maybe... "Ok, stop that. I can't think when you do that."

"Thinking. I'm told it's bad for you," Xander said, leaning forward again.

"Whoa, stop," Cordelia said, stopping him with her palm against his chin, gently pressing upward. "Wait."

"Ok." Xander said, easily. "I can do that. Yup. Waiting is my middle name. Yup, Sure is. Xander Waiting La – "

"Oh, shut up."

"Yes ma'am. Shutting up now, ma'am."

"Oh... bite me Harris," Cordelia said, starting to giggle.

"Naw. Was planning to nibble," Xander said, smiling down at her, and Cordelia felt her brain start to melt.

"Uh... whoa." Cordelia shook her head, and said, "Slow down. We need to talk first, I think. Yeah. Talking... "

"Talking is good." Xander said, nodding. "Whatcha want to talk about?"

Cordelia stared at him, and then burst out laughing. "Gee, I dunno. How about those Clippers? What do you _think_, dumb ass?"

"I think they'll go all the way this season."

"Oh, you do, huh?" Cordelia snickered. "So. I've, uh, decided I really don't hate you, maybe."

"Wow. Completely earth shattering," Xander said, grinning at her again. "We need to take out an ad in the Times."

"Hah. Jerk," Cordelia said, laughing. "So, yeah, maybe not the most subtle way to get that across... "

"Gee, ya think?"

"Oh, shut up." Cordelia looked up at him, biting her lower lip gently. "I need to know that you don't hate me, either."

"What?" Xander blinked down at her. "No. I'm not sure I ever did really."

"Really?" Cordelia found herself searching those, wow, really _weird _blue eyes for... something. Something critically important.

"Really. Pissed off at you a lot? Yeah," Xander said, nodding. "Hurt? Check. Seriously wondering if you got dropped on the head in the third grade and caught brain damage? Often. Hate? Not so much... "

"Willow hated me," Cordelia said. "Hates me."

"Who?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes, snickering. "You know, Willow? Little red haired girl about so high?"

"Oh, yeah. _That_ Willow."

"Wow. I really ought to try the sheer lacy black lingerie thing more often, huh?" Cordelia said, looking up and starting to grin.

"If you'd done this at Aura's party in the seventh grade, we'd never have made it out of that closet," Xander said.

"We _so_ nearly didn't," Cordelia said, snickering again. "I wouldn't speak to Aura for a _month_ after her and Jesse shoved us in there and locked the door on us."

"Even freaking _Harmony_ thought it was funny, yeah," Xander said, laughing softly. "So. I thought we weren't going to do the whole Linda Hamilton thing."

"Oh no. _You_ are so _not_ going to make _me_ give _you_ the 'we may die tomorrow' speech, are you?" Cordelia went back to searching his eyes.

"We're not going to die, Cordy," Xander said.

_Smack!_

The sound of the flat of her hand slapping his bare chest was like a pistol shot. Xander yelped and jumped about three feet straight back, his eyes wide.

"Don't _lie_ to me, dammit," Cordelia said, her eyes suddenly blazing. "Never, _ever_ lie to me, Xander. I don't care _what_ happens, _what_ you do, even if you _do_ sleep with some _Slayer_ and knock her up – do _not_ ever _lie_ to me about it. _Got_ that? Huh?"

"Whoa, hey!" Xander held his hands up, palms out, eying her warily. "Ok ok. No, never. I _promise_, Cordy. I will not _ever_ lie to you. Not ever."

"Good." Cordelia glared at him. "Because that? That's the one thing we can't ever get through. Anything else? We'll work _around_ it if we have to. Even if it means you sleep on the couch for a _year_, we'll get through it. But. Don't. You. _Ever_. Look me in the eyes and _lie_ to me. Not ever."

"No. I won't. Ever," Xander said, his voice and those incredible blue eyes suddenly gone deadly serious on her. "I promise."

"Good. And you better mean it," Cordelia said. "Even if forever may not be all that long once the Larry-bot catches us."

"Cordy, I – " Xander shook his head. "Dammit. Ok... I promise. I won't lie and get all soothing. But – I am _going_ to do my very best to make sure that that doesn't happen."

"Good enough. And you are _not_ going to get your idiot self _killed_ doing it, either," Cordelia said. "Because I so _know_ you, jerk."

"I'll do my best," Xander said, starting to smile slightly.

"Do _better_ than that," Cordelia said. "'Cause if you _think_ I'm going to raise our _kid_ by _myself_ like Linda Hamilton, you are even more deficient than I ever thought you were."

"Whoa, _kid_?" Xander's eyes widened. "I just thought we were about to have _sex?_"

"Well, gee, Xander, where do you think they _come_ from? Under the Christmas tree?"

"Well, _Jesse's_ parents said that that's where _they_ got _him_!"

That was said with such perfectly deadpan delivery and such a wide eyed serious expression, that it left her blinking at him with her mouth working silently, completely and utterly derailed.

Finally, "Oooohhhh... "

Cordelia stalked forward, put both of her hands flat against his chest, and shoved outward with her full strength and body behind it. Xander stumbled back until his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he fell backward onto it, his arms wrapped around his middle and laughing hysterically like a complete loon.

"Oh, gods... Cordy, you... you should have... _seen_ your _face!_"

"I'll face _you__-_ you... _asshole_," Cordelia growled. "Ooh. Jerk!" She started to snicker, and then burst out laughing herself. "Jeeze, Xander. You _always_ do this to me! I'm trying to do or say something _serious_, and you just... "

"Derail your teeny mind and leave you completely flabbergasted?" Xander said, grinning up at her from up on his elbows, lying backward on the bed. "Is flabbergasted even a real word?"

"It should be, it's a good one," Cordelia said, grinning back at him. "And, yeah. That. Here, jerk." She threw the box of Trojans at him, bouncing them off of his forehead.

He caught them left handed after they'd only bounced on the mattress once, and blinked at them. "Huh?"

"I _didn't_ mean we were gonna, like, make a baby _tonight_, moron," Cordelia said, rolling her eyes. "And I'm, like, on birth control, _too_, idiot."

"Wow. Belt _and_ suspenders," Xander said, his eyes widening.

"Oh, shut up." Cordelia shook her head, giving him an exasperated look. "Are you _ever_ serious?"

"I'm serious as a heart attack here, Cordy," Xander said, his expression suddenly going earnest on her. "But if you're expecting me to not _joke_, you're in the wrong bedroom," he swept his gaze hungrily along her body, up and down. "Cause that? That's the only way I can _cope_ with you standing there in that thing without having my brain melt and turning into a puddle of drool."

"Oh. Well... good. I like that. Except maybe the drool thing, 'cause, eww."

"Yeah. Messy." Xander's gaze searched her face, once he managed to wrench it up from a long search of, uh, elsewhere along the way. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yeah. I think so," Cordelia said, nibbling at her bottom lip again. "I'm pretty sure."

"I love it when you scrunch your nose up at me like that," Xander said, grinning. "It's cute."

"I so do not!" Cordelia scowled at him. "Really?"

"Yeah. Have since we were five," Xander said, nodding. "I feel like a complete idiot saying this, because, well," he gestured up and down at her, "But I want you – _us_ – to be sure, here, right?"

"I am." Cordelia nodded. "Look. I know you – _we__ – _are gonna try like hell to get out of this. Alive. But just in case, I don't want to die a virgin."

"Ah, ok... Wait, uh?" Xander blinked at her.

"What do you _mean_, uh?" Cordelia's eyes narrowed. She folded her arms across her chest.

"No! Don't cover them up, jeeze," Xander said, grinning. She glared at him, and he shook his head. "It was... nothing." When she intensified the glare, he sighed and said, "Well, Chad Everette was saying last year that... "

"He _what_?" Cordelia's eyes went wide. "He didn't! But- but- I never even went _out_ with him! And you _believed_ him?"

"Well, no... uh, maybe?" Xander shook his head. "Kind of?"

"Ooooohhh! Jerk! _Both_ of you," Cordelia said, tossing her hair. "No. I never have. I was planning on waiting for someone special. I thought it was gonna be Kevin, but, well... fucking vampires. So... as it turns out, my very special idiot happens to be _you__ – _even if _now_ I _so_ can't figure out for the freaking _life_ of me _why_."

"Which is kinda fitting, seeing as how we almost did that day on the beach a couple of summers back," Xander said.

"We so did _not_!" Cordelia said. "Well, maybe. If we hadn't been like, _fifteen_ and _terrified_ of going much past kissing. And hey – I'm _still_ pissed off at you! I was _grounded_ for a _month_ after staying out all night there!"

Suddenly realizing that she felt, and probably _looked_, ridiculous standing in the middle of the room in a negligee, talking to him, she wandered over slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed by Xander. But not _too_ close. Not yet.

"Hey, I wanted to go back to where we were in second grade after that," Xander said, smiling. "Only, like, more grown up. But you went back to being a total – "

"Total what?" Cordelia arched an eyebrow. "And you'd best pick your words very carefully."

"Uh... human equivalent of your female Afghan Hound?" Xander smirked up at her.

"Not quite what I had in mind, there, bucko," Cordelia said, her lips starting to twitch.

"Descriptive, though."

"Well, you never even _tried_, dammit."

"Gee, I'm sorry, Cordelia," Xander said. "I guess you trained me too well over the previous eight freaking _years_ for the mixed signals to penetrate."

"Ah. Yeah, that. Dammit." Sighing, she began to pick at the coverlet with her fingernails.

"So, we're both total idiots," Xander said.

"Speak for yourself, jerk," Cordelia said, tossing her head and looking down at him. She let her gaze trail along him, not wanting to meet his eyes. Her eyes widened slightly, and she grinned. "Well, I guess I don't have to ask if _you're_ up for this."

"Oh, _gods_ yes. Am I ever up," Xander said, starting to laugh. "But, uh... I've never actually been _up_ with a real girl for, uh, _this_ before."

"I am _so_ not going to ask," Cordelia said, laughing. "I really don't even want to _think_ about that statement."

"Good choice. And inflatable dates don't count, anyway," Xander said. At her widened eyes and outraged – and horrified – look, he tossed his head, flicking too long hair out of his eyes, and grinned up at her. "Well, I'm pretty sure I can find my way around the curves."

"You did once before," Cordelia said. Grinning wickedly, she moved and crawled over until she could kneel up over him, straddling his waist.

"Twice, if we count Aura's hall closet," Xander said. He put a hand on each of her thighs, just above the knees, and ran his palms up them slowly, his expression wondering.

"Oooh." Cordelia felt her eyes go half closed.

Slowly, he ran his palms around to the back of her upper thighs, cupped her ass briefly, and then up to her lower back until he could pull her forward. She leaned forward, and then melted up against him. "Hi there," he said.

"Hey," Cordelia said, looking into his eyes from nose tip to nose tip. "Come here often, stranger?"

"Was kind of hoping to, yeah."

"Oh, gods, you are _so_ lame... "

"Hey! You started it!" Pause... "I mean, if you're gonna just _hand _me straight lines, jeeze."

"Oh, shut up and get busy, Dork."

* * *

_Saturday, November 1, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris property, Near Ojai, __Late Night__ 1__1__:4__5p__m –_

«All right, presence of civilian subjects confirmed, Major,» came through Buckley's command headset. «Convertible in secondary garage matches ID, description, and plate number of Chase Mustang from DMV records. Over.»

"Affirmative," Buckley said, quietly, into his mike. "Certain they're here, and not just the car, Captain?"

«That's an affirmative, Major,» Chelsey's voice came through. «Civilian subjects are currently ensconced in a guest room engaged in, ah, the very best Linda Hamilton/Michael Biehn traditions, sir.»

"Ahem. Don't tell me you're watching through the curtains, Chelse," Buckley said, resisting an impulse to snicker. Good for the kids.

«Negatory. Ran a spy eye under the door, sir.»

"Tsk tsk. Satisfy your prurient interests on your own time, now."

«Darn. And I was going to sell the tapes on the internet. Scout One, over and out.»

"Pervert. Bucky over and out," Major Buckley said, smiling slightly.

Glancing across the over-watch position, he noticed his companion scowling into the surrounding desert night.

"Something on your mind, Master Sergeant?"

"You could say that, Major," Master Sergeant Lionel Cheng, former US Army Ranger and current Infiltration, Gunnery Specialist and EOD expert for the Black Company frowned silently.

Major James Buckley glanced sidelong at his officer across the width of their small hide, and nodded. "Whenever you're ready, Sergeant."

After a short time, Cheng nodded and reached up and silently clicked his collar mike off. Buckley nodded and did likewise.

If needed, they had their headsets on the company freq, and Buckley had his on Command override – he'd get anything important that came across the unit channel, and either Keisha or Allred could cut in if anything _demanded_ Command attention. But Cheng obviously didn't want the discussion going out over channels, so...

"I want to meet those kids, Major," Cheng said, quietly. "Hell, I want to _recruit_ those kids, Major. I've seen trained _military_ recruits come through the Black Company's entry program that would have washed out on those two fights. Assuming they even survived the _test_."

Buckley nodded. "Ditto."

Cheng shot a glance over at him, and then went back to scanning his sector. "You didn't register fully on those vids, did you, Major. I was watching Dr. Walsh and her people, and they didn't either."

"Ok. What did I miss?" It didn't bother or surprise Buckley that he might have missed something. No matter how sharp you were, no one could catch every single detail that might be pertinent to an op.

That was why you surrounded yourself with sharp people, and thanked the stars every day that you had them.

"Sabretooth? Victor Creed?" When Buckley shrugged and gave a slight head shake, Cheng smiled thinly. "My little brother read a lot of comics when we were growing up. My younger sister, too – both of them went to all sorts of fandom conventions and stuff, also."

"Ah. I read a lot of sci-fi and fantasy. I enjoy it, and it's good for the mental flexibility," Buckley said. "But comic books were always a bit too flexible for me."

"Me too," Cheng said, nodding. "I was always more into the hard sci-fi growing up. But... Victor Creed, aka Sabretooth. _M__ajor_ league bad guy from the X-Men comics. Professional killer, ex-secret agent, mercenary, assassin, and probable serial killer. And the guy in the green and yellow tights on the FYI vid that Kolchak and his crew shot was Iron Fist, from Powerman and Iron Fist. Both Marvel Universe characters."

"Ok, well, I've heard of the Marvel Universe, at least," Buckley said.

"And the kid in the second fight was the same one wearing the Iron Fist suit in the first one."

"Caught that much," Buckley said. "The glowing hand was kind of a give away. The young black girl was the same one from earlier, also, the one with the MP-5 in the cat suit."

"I think they're African Americans this week, sir," Cheng said, smiling tightly.

"And screw you too, chink," Buckley said, snickering.

Cheng chuckled and nodded. "Yeah, who can keep up with all the PC recipe crap, hey? And I am _Eurasian_, sir, I'll have you know. Chinks are the _other_ slants."

"Not _my_ Asian," Buckley said. "Oh, wait. Never mind, you are. Carry on."

Cheng shook his head, grinning through closed lips, and said, "Anyway, Major Round Eyes, I'm pretty damned sure we don't have Spider-man, Daredevil, the Avengers and the Fantastic Four running amok in Manhattan all the time. _Someone_ woulda noticed, right? So... the sixty-four zillion dollar question becomes: precisely what the fuck _happened_ in that town on Halloween night?"

"I noticed that the esteemed Dr. Walsh wasn't very forthcoming on that," Buckley said. "Nor were her people... and they kind of glossed past it when the question was asked."

"My apologies, Major," Cheng said. "I'm afraid that Keisha, Chet, myself, and the others weren't real encouraging to them on the inter-agency cooperation front."

"No worries," Buckley said. "None of you said anything that wasn't on the tip of my tongue."

"Who the _fuck_ put that psychopathic bitch in charge of a military project, sir?" Cheng said. "Pardon my fucking French all to hell, Major. But the last time I saw a ripe little sociopath like that, he was in my cross-hairs."

"Heh. The Good Doctor is a right piece of work, is she not?"

"Ayup. Whoever it was, should have his or her stars ripped off and be demoted and placed under her command, sheesh," Cheng said, shaking his head slightly. "Ripped off right along with his dick, or her tits."

"Ours not to reason why, Master Sergeant," Major Buckley said, chuckling.

"All due respect, sir, but fuck that do or die noise, Major," Cheng said, laughing very softly. "_We_ are the Black fucking _Company_. We _exist_ to stand in the way of people like that."

"No. We _exist_ to stand in the way of people and things like that Creed, and this Terminator," Buckley said. "Fucking up people like Dr. Walsh is merely an entertaining sideline."

"I stand, or rather, lie prone corrected, sir," Cheng said, "For the Major is, as always, correct." Both men snickered quietly.

"I take it that I do not have to ask what you and the others think of Dr. Margaret Walsh's little toy soldiers, then?"

"Huh. Stickier question," Cheng said. "I suspect that Captain Finn and Lieutenant Miller might have been decent soldiers if someone hadn't placed them in the tutelage of a mad scientist. Gates? We all know that guys and gals like that slip past even the very best psyche screening. He has the makings of someone who might give trash mercs a bad name."

"Gee, don't hold back. Tell me what you really think," Buckley said, his voice dry.

"Snerk. Naw. You can see it in the eyes. Finn and Miller were pissed off and embarrassed, mostly _embarrassed_, when Keesh read off the Officer's Oath from memory and pointed out where they were fucking up by the numbers. They _know,_ deep down where it counts. _Gates_ was just pissed off."

"Caught that, I did. Liking not being called out, he was."

"It is why Yoda you are, sir," Cheng said, snickering. "Wanna meet that Harris kid, also. And the other one with the Tommygun. My left fucking nut they were not soldiers."

Buckley nodded, looking thoughtful. "My read on them as well."

"So, another sixty-four whatever dollar query, sir," Cheng said. "We gonna round up Miss Chase and Mr. Harris and turn them over to the Happy Harpy for vivisection, along with der Tahminatah?"

"Oh, hell fucking no, Cheng," Buckley said, snorting. "That is a big negatory there, Master Sergeant."

Cheng nodded, and was silent for a long moment, looking thoughtful. After a bit, he said, "Want me to slide down and make contact? And let the pair of them and this Rory Harris know that they're not all alone in this?"

"Huh." Buckley chewed on that for a bit, then said. "Let me think on that one for awhile. If, no – _when_ – we land on Doc Walsh and her toy soldier command, I don't want them alerted by us playing games under Finn's nose. Don't forget: we still have Lieutenant Barkley and First Sergeant Allred back inside their base with at least two units of theirs. And Reeves, Dix, and Swayze out on the sharp end doing surveil with who knows how many toy soldiers around sight unseen doing the same."

Cheng made a face, and then said, "Right. But, all due respect again, if they're trying to surveil Dix and Michaela Reeves, they are no longer sight unseen. And I'd put Keisha Barkley up against Maggie fucking Walsh's entire Command."

"Heh. Would be an interesting, albeit brief, little gunfight, would it not?"

Cheng nodded, chuckling nastily. "Keisha is fucking deadly with that archaic sixgun and her backup. And as for Finn and 'Team Lilac' here, I got an Al Mar SERE strapped to my boot and a Hibben Rambo III that says they just ain't gonna be no problem a'tall."

Buckley nodded, and said, "Like I said: Let me think on that one for awhile. Right now, I'm trying to decide whether or not Finn and Miller, and some of their people, might be salvageable."

"Sure." Cheng nodded. "Don't think too long, though, begging the Major's pardon, sir. My gut tells me that when this breaks sideways, it is gonna do so in a heartbeat and a handclap."

"It always does, Cheng. It always does. My mike is going back live now. Look sharp and pipe down."

"Sir, yes sir."

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Mayor's Office at City Hall__, Downtown Sunnydale, Morning __1__2:45am –_

"Well, everything, or rather, _everyone_ on the immediate list seems to be taken care of, for now," Trask said.

"Excellent," Mayor Richard Wilkins the Third said. "I'll have to make a note to myself to secure a replacement for Principal Snyder."

"And the Finkle woman, as well," Trask said, nodding. "Kind of a shame about her – she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And in all fairness, for whatever _that's_ worth, it really wasn't Snyder's fault that he succumbed to the effect and lost control of the situation."

"True. And if I was interested in being fair, I'm sure I'd take that into account," Wilkins said, chuckling. "Still, he was proving even before this to be a disappointment to me on his main task of keeping an eye on situations at that school, and keeping them from getting out of hand."

Shrugging, Trask made no comment to that.

"So," Wilkins said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Have you any further information on what precisely occurred on Halloween here?"

"Somewhat," Trask said, nodding. "It appears that an old compatriot of Rupert Giles came to town, from what I've been able to overhear and piece together, and cast an enchantment on a large number of costumes that he sold to the general populace. Apparently a Chaos mage named Ethan Rayne."

"Hmm. Rayne, Rayne... that name sounds oddly familiar," Wilkins said, frowning.

Trask shrugged. "He was responsible for a similar mass chaos event in Detroit a few years back, on Devil's Night. However, that's about the extent of my information here, as of yet. It appears that Summers' Watcher, Rupert Giles, and his companions, picked Rayne's shop clean of papers, notes, customer lists, and anything else that might be of use to us."

"Hmm. Aha!" Wilkins snapped his fingers, smiling cheerfully. "Ethan's Costume Emporium, that's where. Nervy fellow: he applied here for a business permit for his little stunt. Tsk tsk. We'll have to take him sternly to task for that. But at least he was code compliant."

"Heh. Quite," Trask said, dryly. "And taking him to task will be a bit difficult, at least in this life. Seems that he bit off more than he wanted to chew, and his spell killed him."

"Ah. Hoist by his own petard, then. A pity, that," Wilkins said, shaking his head a bit sadly. "I was looking forward to expressing my... _appreciation_ for his ingenuity and efforts."

Trask looked at him, and shuddered a bit, internally, while carefully keeping it from his expression. He'd seen Wilkins' 'appreciation' expressed a few times. It was seldom pretty.

"Do we have any idea at all what might have prompted this little display?" Wilkins asked.

"No. Again, not at the moment," Trask said, shaking his head. "However, my outside contacts tell me that Rayne's Devil's Night event was sponsored by a certain law firm that we are not unfamiliar with."

"Hmm. Wolfram and Hart," Wilkins said, his expression turning exceedingly bland. "Well, that certainly puts an interesting complexion on things, doesn't it? Rhetorical question," he added, lifting a hand to forestall a comment that hadn't been forthcoming. "We'll have to determine if that was indeed the case in this instance, and if so... then a means of informing Wolfram and Hart that our stance on not tolerating their interference and presence in Sunnydale has _not_ been relaxed."

"I'll begin having inquiries made to that effect," Trask said, nodding. "I wanted to know your orders on that before beginning to do so. And I'll begin giving some thought as to devising a suitable response, should their involvement prove to be a fact."

"Do that," Wilkins said, nodding. "It just won't do to have the Senior Partners believing that they can establish a presence here on the Hellmouth prior to my Ascension next year. Any success so far in locating this robotic entity that massacred so many people? And that Victor Creed fellow?"

"Not as of yet, no. They both seem to have gone to ground fairly effectively," Trask stated. "I have associates out searching."

"Good, good. Excellent, in fact," Wilkins said, nodding. "It is fairly certain that this Terminator fellow will pop up again hunting for Cordelia Chase. Dreadful business, that, with the Chase family. Simply dreadful."

"I hadn't been aware that Randall Chase was among your supporters," Trask said.

"He wasn't. That's _why_ it's dreadful," Wilkins said, chuckling. "I _had_ had in mind to teach him a lesson myself on that. Being killed has a drastic tendency to flatten the learning curve, however, I'm afraid. Permanently."

"Ah." Trask nodded. "Perhaps his daughter may be more amenable to that."

"Possibly. I'll take it under consideration. However," he fixed Trask with a cold look and a colder expression. "Miss Chase's association with the Summers girl affords her a certain number of... immunities in that area. Is that clear?"

"Of course," Trask said, holding up his hands with a bland expression. "I've already made certain that all of my assistants are aware of these facts."

"Of course you have," Wilkins said, nodding and smiling at him. "Make a note: I would like to have this Creed approached and sized up with an employment offer. We could use a man with his talents on our staff."

"Note made," Trask said. "One of my assistants made the observation that there were signs of Creed's involvement in an altercation in front of Sunnydale High School early last evening. It resulted in considerable damage to the front of the building, and the hospitalization of the Summers girl."

"Ah! Is _that_ what happened to her?" Wilkins said, his eyes widening slightly. "I had been unable to find out through my other avenues. We _d__efinitely_ want Mr. Creed on our team, then. That's what happens when loose cannons are allowed to remain loose: they rock the boat. Better to bring him under control. Hmm... " Wilkins frowned. "I'll have to remember to have school canceled there in the morning, possibly for the next few days until repairs can be made, then. And to line up an interim Principal until a permanent one can be located."

"Possibly Dr. Giles would be amenable to taking the position on a temporary basis?" Trask asked.

"Oh – excellent suggestion," Wilkins said, beaming at him. "I understand that he was one of the very few faculty members who did not succumb to the Halloween madness. And that he did an excellent job of filling in for the Escort Staff and defusing that bit of unpleasantness."

Trask nodded. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "On the killer cyborg front, there is a development that might prove a bit problematic."

"Oh? Do tell." Wilkins raised his eyebrows.

"A contact of a contact phoned to inform me that there was an unreported and unlogged flight into Vandenberg AFB earlier," Trask said. "He says, and this is unconfirmed, of course, that he suspects it may have been carrying a unit of Phantasm Force personnel."

"Phantasm Force?" Wilkins said. He gave Trask a curious look.

Trask shuddered visibly. "Aka the Black Company. Unofficial nicknames for a nonexistent outfit. A very select and very _elite_ nonexistent government military unit. Very small, as well. They're tasked with dealing with supernatural, and suspected supernatural incidents of a dangerous variety. Very much on the QT."

"Ah." Wilkins nodded. "And you believe that they may have been called in to deal with this, ah, Terminator, for a continuing lack of a better term?"

"Or possibly with Creed. Or both, perhaps," Trask said, spreading his hands. "One of the consulting psychiatric experts that was involved with the SPD's interrogation of Ms. Chase and Mr. Harris on Halloween night was seen to be meeting with the presumed commander of the outfit. The contact wasn't able to determine the gist of the conversation, however, only that they left the base following her vehicle. And that her driver appeared to have a military background."

"Hrmm. Any idea of the identity of this psychiatric expert?" Wilkins said, his frown deepening.

"Not at present," Trask said. "I have an associate working on that. As soon as the information is in my hands, you'll have it."

"Excellent. Do make sure of that, please," Wilkins said. "And in the meantime, I'll have Alan check with Interim Chief Stein to ask for the identities of the consultants they used."

"Your methods may bear fruit before mine, then," Trask said, nodding.

Wilkins smiled, nodding back. He rubbed his hands together again, and gave Trask an expectant look. "Do you have any thoughts on dealing with the major influx of outside law enforcement resulting from Friday night's... incidents?"

Trask shook his head, and shrugged. "Outside of my area of expertise, fortunately."

"Hmm. Well, I'll certainly have to give that one some serious thought as well," Wilkins said, frowning. "I really, really dislike having outsiders poking about. Never know what they'll stumble over, or what might stumble over them. And eat them. Unfortunately, until our interim Police Chief has had occasion to rebuild the department, I suspect there's little to be done about it."

"Just have to weather the storm?" Trask said, smiling slightly. "And batten down the hatches?"

"Exactly!" Wilkins aimed a finger at him, beaming.

"I'll monitor the situation carefully, of course," Trask said. "Any orders on dealing with the second Slayer that cropped up on Halloween?"

"Hmm. Sticky business, that," Wilkins said. He steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows propped on his desktop, and peered over the tips of them thoughtfully. "Tempting to have you eliminate her while she's hospitalized. One slayer is useful, two is an embarrassment of riches. However, I'm loathe to add interest from the Council of Watchers to the mix here. No sir, just wouldn't do." Wilkins sighed, shaking his head. "Let it go for now. Perhaps when she's recovered, she'll return to her normal haunts. If not, we'll determine a course of action then."

"Very well," Trask said. "She was responsible for dealing with Spike before Creed put her down for the count. I have a call out for the Gorch Brothers to come and finish the job on Drusilla."

"Oh, good." Wilkins nodded. "Such marvelously bloody fellows. And she and Spike were getting to be an annoyance."

"Definitely loose cannons," Trask said. Rising from his seat, he looked at the Mayor. "Anything further for the moment?"

"No, no, I believe that will do," Wilkins said, rising as well. "Just keep an eye on the various situations, and monitor developments on things of interest to us. I believe I'll call it a night, myself. Early day tomorrow, with this school situation and all to take care of."

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: #4616, Apt. B on Windsor St., Sunnydale, Early Morning 12:45am –_

Strenuously resisting the urge to either roll his eyes, join in, or chuckle in sympathy, Rupert Giles listened with all the patience at his disposal as Dr. Samuel Zabuto went on at great length on the subject of Roger Wyndam-Pryce and his Traditionalist cronies in the Council. Finally, after a lengthy and particularly pungent description of Pryce and his fellow's parentage, reproductive activities, prehistoric attitudes, and lack of general personal hygiene – in eight languages, three of which Giles wasn't familiar with – he wound down at long last.

"I must say that while I quite agree with you, Samuel, I do believe that you're doing a disservice to both Australopithecus and Homo Neanderthalensis by lumping them into Wyndam-Pryce's immediate family tree," Giles said, finally allowing a dry chuckle to escape. "I'm tempted, however, to include Quentin Travers in on the rest of your commentary."

«Oh, Quentin's not as bad as all that, Rupert,» Zabuto said. «You have to remember that as High Council Head, he's first and foremost a _politician_, rather than a _Watcher_ these days. And as such, he's dependent upon the voting blocks of various interests in order to get _anything_ accomplished in that inbred collection of mountebanks and professional jobsworths.»

"Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps," Giles said. "I must say, my opinion on the fellow is colored a bit by both my experience with his father when I was reinstated in the Watcher's Candidacy program, and by my father's commentary on him."

«Now, don't get me started there, Rupert,» Zabuto said, «While I have the highest regard for your grandmother and her accomplishments, your father and his Liberalist Movement are not without their blemishes either. Travers and the Conservative faction have to walk a fine line in placating both your Grandmother's Reformationists and Pryce's Traditionalists. And the Traditionalists, unfortunately, currently heavily influence the Council's financial resources.»

"True. Well, be all of that as it may, the important thing here is that your Slayer is alive and expected to recover," Giles said, "And that you've been extended leave to travel here and oversee her recovery personally."

«Bah. As if I'd allow a thing like _permission_ to prevent me,» Zabuto growled into the other end of the phone connection. «I was in the process of having my son make my arrangements when Travers' man Pemberton made contact with me.»

"Of course. I can't say I would not have done precisely the same."

«Of _course_ you couldn't have said that. No field Watcher worth his salt would,» Zabuto said. «And I do, truly, wish to thank you and your young cohorts for attempting to look after my girl, Rupert. It is greatly appreciated. As well, I am delighted to hear that your Slayer is expected to make a full recovery, also.»

"As am I, naturally," Giles said. "On the other, well, of course. No thanks necessary. It was certainly the very least I – we – could do."

«Must say, I'm looking forward to meeting your odd little group, Rupert,» Zabuto said. «And be assured, once I've determined that she is well on the way to recovery, I intend to have a few words with my young lady. She was _supposed_ to make contact with you earlier and utilize your resources, rather than wait until the very last moment.»

"Would that she had," Giles said. "However, don't be too hard on her, please. By all accounts, she did a marvelous job not only in putting an end to William the Bloody, but in two separate encounters with that Sabretooth creature."

«Of course not. Wouldn't dream of chastising her too badly,» Zabuto said, chuckling. «However, I know precisely what was going through her mind: she was determined to make a good show by proving that she could handle her first lone assignment without assistance.»

"Most likely," Giles said. "She was, according to Aura and Jesse, making every attempt to make contact with me after the situation began to unfold, but was simply swept up in events and unable to break loose. Apparently, her dedication wouldn't allow her to abandon her companions despite her need and desire to complete her mission."

«Some in our benighted circles would be tempted to see that as a weakness, Rupert.» Zabuto sighed heavily. «Very well. Depending on what connections my son has been able to secure for me, I should be arriving at the Sunnydale airport some time late tomorrow afternoon or early evening. I know that you have had an exhausting day, so I shan't keep you. Plenty of time for discussion when we meet in person.»

"Quite. Very well, then. I'll look forward to greeting you on your arrival," Giles said. Once Samuel Zabuto had severed the connection, he placed the phone back into the cradle.

"Kendra's Watcher is on his way then?" Jenny Calendar said.

"Yes. He believes that they, or perhaps he, should be arriving tomorrow night, early," Giles said, smiling at her.

"Good. She should have someone other than Aura concerned with her, someone familiar who cares about her," Jenny said. "As Buffy does you."

"Quite." Removing his glasses, Giles rubbed at his eyes tiredly, and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"All right, Watcher Man," Jenny said, setting her brandy glass down on a coaster and rising from the sofa. "Time to go to bed. Past time, actually."

"I fear that I won't be of much use at this point," Giles said, smiling wryly at her. "It has been an exhausting day."

"To _sleep_, Rupert," Jenny said, smiling. "Well, unless you just _insist_ on a game of the Conquered Gladiatress and the Heroic Scholar, first."

"Hrmm. Perhaps I am not _that_ exhausted after all."

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, Early Morning __1__:40am –_

"Wow," Cordelia said, panting. "I thought that guys lost interest and rolled over and started snoring after the first time."

Xander snickered, looking up at her. He stroked his hand across her hair, and pulled her down against his chest to lie against his body, and captured her lips in a long, steamy kiss.

"I'm _sixteen_, Cordy, almost seventeen," he said. "I'm pretty much a twenty-four hour walking hardon most days, even when I'm asleep."

"Us girls have long suspected that about you guys," Cordelia said. "It explains _so_ much."

"Yeah. No blood flow above the waist will do that to ya," Xander said. "And, likewise. Wow."

"Yeah. Now I'm sorry I didn't call you back to the gate and we wasted two years," Cordelia said, grinning at him from just above his lips.

"Me too," Xander said, nodding. He kissed her again, and then said, his expression serious, "Cordelia... "

"No. Don't," Cordelia said, laying a finger over his lips. "Whatever idiotic and mushy thing it is, don't. Because in the movies, that always means someone is going to die when they start talking about things like that."

"Ah. Yeah. Can't have that," Xander said, nodding.

Nodding, Cordelia searched his eyes, her own expression equally serious. "For what it's worth, me too. And we'll sort all that out _after_ this is over, 'kay?"

"All right," Xander said. He snickered suddenly, and added, "You know, in horror movies, having sex always means the bad guy is about to burst in and hack both people to death."

"Yeah. But in _those_, the two kids never have heavy game rifles, magnum handguns, and shotguns in close reach."

"True, that."

"You know," Cordelia said, tracing his lips idly with her fingertip, "I'd kind of figured that you and that Ampata girl would have... "

Xander kissed her fingertip, and then shrugged and said, "Might have. But she turned out to be an ancient Inca mummy with designs on my life force."

"Ouch. That always puts a damper on a relationship, yeah," Cordelia said, laughing softly.

"It can. But it's not an insurmountable obstacle," Xander said. "I mean, look at Buffy and Angel."

Snickering, Cordelia said, "Ok, now. Don't be mean. Or at _least_ don't be _tacky_."

"I'll try not to."

"We so _really_ need to get away from that damned town," Cordelia said, shaking her head. She slid down a bit and laid it on his upper chest, one hand over his heart.

"Damned being a good word for the place," Xander said. "Let's find something better to discuss."

She raised up, propping her chin on her arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, she made a face and raised up a bit more, pulling the little folder on its leather thong out from under her. Idly, she opened it and looked at the photos inside curiously.

"So, where did the photos come from?" Cordelia asked. "Or, where did Hicks come by them?"

Xander shrugged under her, smiling wryly. "Where and when? Dunno. Hicks never knew," Xander said. "As to the other... he found them on the floor in a base they were evacuating, in the BoQ. Heart Island, something like that? Grabbed 'em up, and when he took 'em to Cordelia and – uh, you and me – you got kind of a funny look on your face and said for him to keep 'em."

"Huh." Cordelia shook her head. "So _not_ doing much to get rid of my 'we created the Resistance' theory."

"Eh. No fate, Cordy," Xander said. "Doesn't mean that some things aren't gonna happen. Just means that our actions _affect_ what happens, and maybe even _how_. It's _not_ inevitable. No more than, oh, Buffy dying facing the Master. If she'd just _staked_ the freaking Annoying One when she found him in front of the school, instead of following him into the tunnels, would Heinrich Nest still be stuck in the cave in near the Hellmouth?"

Cordelia nodded. "And if you and Angel hadn't gone in after her, then she'd have died for real, instead of the Prophecy being averted. Except it wasn't – she _did_ die. Just found a loophole."

"It's _all_ about the loopholes, Cordy," Xander said. "If you had decided against this," he ran his fingertips slowly along her cheek, and down along the curve of her shoulder and am so gently that she closed her eyes and shivered, "I would _not_ have pushed for it. Period. Screw the future."

"Hey," Cordelia said. "Maybe I _like_ the idea of being this great warrior gal and mother of the Savior of the Human Race, huh? Ever think about that? Talk about _knowing_ you're gonna be special."

"Hah." Xander raised his head slightly, grinning at her. "Hero."

"Damn straight," Cordelia said. "And that's _heroine_ to _you_, buster."

"Sexist."

"Nope. I just don't agree with making perfectly good words go away and making others gender neutral and all that bullshit," Cordelia said, smiling into his eyes. "I _like_ being a woman and a girl. I like _men_ and the whole boy-girl thing. I don't _need_ to be a fake man to be equal to or better than most of the men I know."

"No danger of you ever being a man, fake or otherwise, no," Xander said. "And you've _always_ been special, Cordy."

Grasping her by the upper arms, he rolled over, laying her on her back looking up at him, and leaned on an elbow on his side next to her. Smiling down at her, he began slowly and lightly tracing designs with his fingertips in the hollow between her breasts, and then along the underside of one and then the other of them.

Cordelia's breath caught in her throat, and she arched her back, gasping. "Oh. Again... ?"

"What I said about being nearly seventeen?"

"Ah. I see there's advantages."

"Objections, ma'am?"

"No... " Cordelia gasped again as his fingertips captured a still sensitive nipple and began teasing it erect. "No, carry on... s-soldier."

"Kinda the operational plan here, ma'am."

"We really do need to get some sleep here, sometime... "

"Plenty of time for that, later."

* * *

.


	11. Too Much Time on Our Hands

**Chapter Forty-six: Too Much Time on Our Hands...**

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Beaker Street__, Ted __Buchanan__ workshop, Sunnydale, Early Morning 4:40am –_

CONVERSION COMPLETE... FULL AUTO FUNCTION ACTIVATED... RELIABILITY... 97.98%

Expressionless, the T101L set the newly modified AR-10 patrol rifle to one side and picked up the 10mm UZI Carbine from the other end of the worktable. Selecting some new and slightly different tools from the assortment that the Series 720 had provided for him, he began removing the receiver cover.

The HK-94 Carbine was already converted to full automatic. That had been the first one that he'd begun to work on after his own interim repairs had been complete.

Sans shirt, the T101L's visible torso, shoulders, and arms were covered with dimpled marks and pinkish new skin. The new dermal layering covering the injuries where the bullets had been removed was shiny, making him look somewhat like a burn victim. The shiny patch covering the right cheek and cheekbone reinforced the impression of a badly burned man with keloid scarring.

No matter.

The dermal layer and damaged synthetic flesh would grow back, albeit slowly. The Series 850 Terminators were a vast improvement over their Series 800 predecessors in that regard. As long as there was a significantly large portion of undamaged and still living tissue, and outer skin covering, and the dead, dying, and necrotic synthetic flesh and tissues had been cut away... its outer coverings were self-repairing.

Occasionally, assistance was needed in surgically removing damaged sectors, and removing projectiles from areas impossible to reach unassisted. That was why advance scouts were placed as sleeper agents, such as the Ted Buchanan overlay T720 Series.

The "Ted" model had suffered organic neural component damage from temporal stresses involved in whatever mishap had resulted in its missing its target date by several decades and was delusional, however... that was of no import. It functioned sufficiently well to perform its primary function.

Its sideline as an as yet undiscovered "Blue Beard" serial killer was of no consequence to the "Larry Blaisdell" imprint Terminator.

As long as it did not compromise a mission critical function, it could marry and murder all of the human women it cared to. Terminating humans was a Terminator's primary function, after all. Doing so wholesale was not a requirement.

Neither the shiny, keloid looking dermal replacement nor the currently missing ocular covering mattered to the T101L. It now, once again, looked sufficiently human to pass without being commented upon. Or, at least, it would very soon. Further, the damage and the visible scarring would render it harder to recognize to humans who had seen and identified the Blaisdell overlay.

Its mission was not compromised.

And, as soon as night fell, it would locate the two human primary and secondary targets, and that mission would be completed. By then, it would have healed sufficiently to enable it to pass. The RayBan sunglasses would cover the missing ocular tissue.

In the meanwhile, it had weapons to reconfigure.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, Afternoon 1:40pm –_

"Seriously glad you still had all of your RC modeling stuff, Rory," Xander said, examining the controller in his hands. "And your old HK-91."

"Hell, you're just enjoying a chance to play with a remote sentry gun emplacement like in Aliens, boy," Rory said, laughing.

"Well... that too," Xander said, grinning back at him.

Rolling her eyes, Cordelia shook her head at them. After breakfast, Xander had managed – somehow – to convert one of Rory's semi-auto rifles to full automatic, and then had cobbled together a tripod for it with several servo motors from a couple of old, large, radio controlled vehicles. And a miniature video camera, and a RC controller...

Boys and their toys.

"Ok, so... I get the shaped charges, I do," Cordelia said, "And the homemade rocket launcher. But... didn't you say that stuff like this and the AR-10 you stole are too light to do much?"

"Yeah, did," Xander said. "And they are, at least as far as actually killing the thing."

"Ok, so... "

"Well, we can't get into a stand up fight, Cordy," Xander said. "That's just suicide under an alias. And we just don't have access to stuff like armor piercing and AP incendiary bullets that would make stuff like a 7.62mm really effective against a Terminator. So, we have to go with two strategies, really: one) run like hell and keep running."

"Right. I get that," Cordelia said, nodding. "But I also get that we can't run forever."

"Right." Xander grinned, and worked the small joystick on the controller, causing the mounted rifle to swivel right and then left, and then pressed a button. It fired off a long burst of 7.62mm, chewing up the water filled gallon jugs set about thirty yards down range before falling silent. "So, strategy two is to fight and run. With the objective during each fight being to damage the Terminator enough to strip away the outer meat sack to where it can't be regrown or repaired easily."

"And destroy its ability to blend in," Cordelia said. "Ah."

"Right. A big guy chasing two people in a city like L.A. or San Diego is one thing," Xander said. "A gleaming titanium steel skeleton with glowing red eyes is another thing. It's just _bound_ to get noticed and talked about." He grinned at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling at her. "Which means that it'll either have to go to ground somewhere and take a long time regrowing its synthetic musculature and skin, or just continue on and hope it can kill us before it attracts the attention of people who do have stuff that can put it down for keeps."

"Stuff like anti-tank missiles and auto-cannons and suchlike," Rory said, nodding.

"And either way, we win," Cordelia said. "If it has to go to ground for, what?"

"Several months, at least, if the flesh covering is completely burned off like in Terminator 1," Xander said. "If I'm recalling Hicks' information accurately, then it has an internal reservoir that contains a kernel of genetic material and 'blueprints' for regrowing its meatsack. But that takes vats and equipment and nutrients and all sorts of stuff if it gets damaged so badly that it has to regrow from scratch."

"Right, several months, plus however long it takes to locate the stuff and a base," Cordelia said, "Then that gives us time to get our hands on stuff that will hurt it, if we can. Or for someone who can to hurt it and kill it. Win/win."

"Uh huh," Rory said, nodding. His gaze went thoughtful and distant. "And to find out where it can get that stuff and hole up, and locate it, 'cuase there's just _got_ to be a limited number of venues for a gleaming metal skeleton to do that."

"Or just to get so far away that we can lose ourselves even deeper underground," Xander said, "If we decide that's what we want to do."

"Temporarily, maybe," Cordelia said. "I want to kill this thing dead, so we can start working on getting the legal stuff fixed and go back to our freaking lives, hopefully."

"And if you can't?" Rory said, looking at her curiously.

"Then... we deal with that when we have to," Cordelia said. "Build new lives, whatever."

"Yeah," Xander said. "Probably easier for me than for Cordy, Rory."

"Well, not like I have a whole lot of ties left," Cordelia said, making a face. "But I _would_ like my life back, or at least a version of it. So... the automatic fire at least will whittle away at it."

"And," Xander swiveled the tripod again, using the remote, "Do it from over there, while we're over _there_, and _away_ from the gun and any return fire."

"I like that," Cordelia said, nodding. "Like I said: you best not get killed on me, dumb ass. I am so _not_ gonna do this alone."

"Really gonna do my best not to, Cordy."

"Good."

Sighing, Cordelia reflected that even if she didn't have purely, umm, emotional reasons for wanting Xander to remain alive and with her, there were immensely practical ones as well. Xander with Tech-sergeant Dwayne Hicks' memories and Hicks' almost encyclopedic knowledge of what made Terminators tick and how to fight them was a resource way too valuable to lose.

How would T2 and that other reality have gone if Kyle Reese had stayed alive to help raise and train John Connor? And would Sarah Connor have ended up the badly messed up, emotionally damaged and nearly psychotic mess she was by T2 with him around? Or would they have helped each other stay sane? Or saner, even?

No way to answer that in the films. But Cordelia intended to find her _own_ answer for it in real life, if it was at all humanly possible to do so.

Best of both worlds: Xander Harris with Sergeant Hicks' memories and knowledge.

The guy she was probably going to fall in love with, one way or another – if she hadn't already, long ago – and the guy she was still depending on to help keep her alive.

No fate but what we make, huh?

Let's test that theory out, then.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __3523 Paden Street__, Levinson home, Sunnydale, Afternoon 1:45pm –_

"Jonathan! Some friends from school here to see you!"

Huh?

His mom's voice roused Jonathan Levinson from wherever it was that he'd been lost within his thoughts. He'd been about half paying attention to something on History Channel in the den, and had wandered off down some mental pathway that he barely recalled now that he was jerked back to what lately he'd been laughingly calling 'reality'.

Such as it was, anyway.

Reality had taken on whole new dimensions and connotations on Halloween night, and very suddenly at that.

Jonathan had been kind of vaguely aware of the doorbell ringing, and of some car with a big engine pulling up out front before that. Now, with a kind of reflexive caution that he had possessed _before_ Halloween, thank you, he paused by the den's front windows to look outside.

He couldn't see the porch and who was on it from here, natch. But he could see the curb in front of the house. And...

He only knew of one person at Sunnydale High who owned a dark blue, hopped up, '72 Gran Torino Sport that anyone might even remotely consider a classmate of his, much less a friend. Classmate, maybe. Friend, not so much.

Jonathan paused for a moment, thinking things over. Interesting.

Interesting what wasn't there any more, that kind of interesting.

"Tell 'em I'm on my way," Jonathan called up to the front of the house.

Less than four days ago, the idea of Tor Hauer showing up some place where he was looking for him would have thrown Jonathan into a blind panic. Had, as a matter of fact, on any number of occasions. Well, Tor and Heidi Barrie, actually. You almost never saw the pair of them separate any more. Not since around the middle of Sophomore year, matter of fact.

Now? Not so much. As in, not so much as a real quiver of panic or even real nervousness. Just... mild curiosity.

If Tor and Heidi were here to cause him trouble, so be it. He'd either fight, or not. He'd either win, or he wouldn't. If he fought back, he'd either get hurt badly, or he wouldn't.

He'd most likely not win, in the event. Jonathan wasn't about to kid himself that having the skills and memories of Corporal Murphy made him a physical equal for Tor Hauer, or even Barrie. Heck, Larry Blaisdell, pre Terminator Larry, had stepped a bit lightly around Tor Hauer, and _Larry_ had forty or more pounds on Tor.

And not even psycho Jack O'Toole or Shelia Martini, before she'd dropped out of school, leaned on Heidi Barrie. Not any, not ever.

Sane, or even _in_sane, people just didn't mess with people that flat didn't _care_ what happened to them just so long as they got to mess you up badly in return. Or more likely, _first__ – _Heidi had proven _tons_ of times that she wasn't above a preemptive assault.

Laws of nature: sun rose, fire burned, cold froze, equal and opposite reactions in motion, Tor and Heidi were dangerous in ways that their other two running mates, Kyle and Rhonda, only dreamt of being. Even more so after the end of sophomore year for some reason...

By the time these thoughts had finished running through Jonathan's mind, he was at his front door, and already pulling it open.

"Hey, Jonno," Tor said, leaning casually against one of the porch pillars.

"Hey, Tor," Jonathan said. "Gotta tell you: if you plan on giving me a swirly here, my folks will probably object."

"Well, rats, there goes that plan," Heidi said, smiling at him.

"Darn it all to heck," Tor said. "And I was so much looking forward to that part."

"So, what's up, guys?" Closing the door behind him, Jonathan leaned up against it as casually as Tor was against the pillar.

"Figured we'd give it a day or so," Tor said.

"And then come by and see how you were recovering from Halloween," Heidi said. She examined Jonathan intently while speaking.

"Not much worse for wear," Jonathan said, shrugging.

"Outside, anyway?" Tor said, giving Jonathan his own careful examination.

Jonathan shrugged again. "You guys?"

"We'll live," Heidi allowed.

"I see your eyes didn't change back," Tor said.

"Yeah. Really weird looking in the mirror."

"I'll bet," Tor said.

"Also bet your folks didn't even notice," Heidi said, nodding.

"You'd win," Jonathan said. "Good thing I didn't bet."

Both of the other teens grinned, exchanged looks, and nodded at each other.

"Yup," Heidi said, turning back to him.

"Week ago, you wouldn't have even come to the door," Tor said.

"Now? No fear," Heidi said.

"Wouldn't say that," Jonathan said, smiling slightly.

"But?" Heidi said, raising her eyebrows.

"Doesn't seem to bother me as much," Jonathan said, shrugging.

"Good," Tor said. "So... " Tor glanced sidelong at Heidi, shrugged, and turned back to Jonathan. "Larry's an unstoppable killer, Xander Harris turned Rambo, and there's guys who turn into dust when you blow their heads off."

"And your eyes didn't turn back," Heidi said.

"Lemme guess," Jonathan said, the slight smile broadening a bit. "You still know how to handle a sixgun and Winchester like you were born with one."

"Have to get a hold of a single action to find out," Heidi said.

"But the Winchester... " Tor said, "She was ten for ten on thrown targets out at my uncle's place yesterday."

"Ah."

"Figured we should probably have a sit down and talk," Heidi said.

"About?" Jonathan's eyebrows went up.

"How much do you know about stuff in March of last year, the library gang, Buffy Summers, and stuff that happens around school and this town?"

"Hmm." Jonathan thought about that one for a bit, and shrugged. "More than some people, but probably not nearly enough."

Heidi nodded. "Good. Let's go somewhere and talk."

"Hope you have a strong stomach," Tor said.

"Ok," Jonathan said, thinking. "C'mon up to my room for awhile. Needs be, we can go over to Tam's."

"Cool," Heidi said. She and Tor exchanged looks again, and grinned at each other. "Figured you two would click after."

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris home, Near Ojai, Afternoon 3:40pm –_

"We can't hide out here forever," Xander said. "Wish we could, but... "

"Sigh. Yeah, guess so," Cordelia said. "What, you figure that thing will figure out some way to track us?"

"One way or another," Xander said, carefully examining an improvised warhead before setting it down. "Or the frigging Harmony-bot. Harmony actually knows about Uncle Rory's place. She, err, _it_, worries me."

"What happened to Harmony needing an upgrade to achieve stupidity?" Rory asked, while examining a small satchel charge.

"Heh. She _got_ one," Xander said, grinning mirthlessly. "Besides, a machine doesn't have to be smart. Just programmed right. You know that."

"Yeah," Rory said, nodding. "Hell, computers are stupid. Just fast at calculations and remorselessly logical."

"Remorseless," Cordelia said, shuddering visibly. "_Really_ bad choice of words, even if they are accurate."

"Hell, may as well face it straight on, Cordy girl," Rory said. "It is what it is. Even when it sucks."

"Yeah, and it _so_ very much _does_, dammit," Cordelia said. "Yeah, Harmony is, or was, a royally idiotic bitch, and Larry was a bully and an insecure thug, but _neither_ of them deserved anything like _this_."

"Neither did all of those cops, even if they _were_ Sunnydale PD," Xander said, nodding. "Or the bikers at the Fish Tank, your parents, or Aphrodesia, Owen, or _you_, for that matter."

"Yeah yeah," Cordelia said, scowling. "I'm dealing, all right? Don't expect me to like this, though." Sighing, she said, "Wish you could warn _your_ parents to at least leave town."

Rory looked over at Xander, nodding. "Agreed."

"Tried," Xander said. "No answer there, or on their cells. Not that mom and dad ever remember to charge their damned cells all the time. Half the time pop leaves his in the glove box, and mom forgets hers in their room. And I'm afraid to keep trying."

"What about Buffy and them?" Cordelia said.

"Gonna have to depend on Aura to warn Buff and the others like she said she would: they're the _first_ people the Larry-bot would put a phone tap and trace on," Xander said, shrugging.

"Hey, that's a switch for you," Cordelia said. "Not that I disagree, but..."

"I know Aura – she might flake on some stuff, but she wouldn't let _you_ down on something important," Xander said. Cordelia nodded agreement at him.

"So, trace and tap? I mean, I remember that it can imitate voices, but in the movies it usually tricked them into giving themselves away, didn't it?" Cordelia gave him a sharp look, her eyebrows rising, and Rory answered for him.

"Cell phones can be traced or intercepted – they're just radio waves, basically, Cordy," Rory said, "And phone lines can be tapped and the phone company records can even be phreaked."

"What the movies call 'hacked'," Xander said, in response to her curious look. "And according to Hicks' memories, Terminators have all of the those capabilities. Or they can acquire them, or figure out ways to get around it."

"Social engineering?" Rory asked.

"In the most brutal and efficient way imaginable," Xander said, nodding. "Go in, terminate anyone who's not essential, and torture someone with access to the info into giving it up."

"Brrr." Cordelia shivered again. "Man. This really _is_ a nightmare you can't wake up from. The hell ever possessed Larry and Harmony to dress as these things, anyway? Or you as Kyle freaking Reese's alternate stunt double, for crying out loud?"

"Thought it'd be cool? And fun?" Xander said, shrugging. "Not like any of us knew that that Rayne character was planning a real life CosPlay episode."

"Yeah. Except that it's the freaking _Hellmouth_, and it _does_ things like turn Marcie Ross invisible and freaking psychotic," Cordelia said. "_You_ at least should have known better."

Xander smiled at her, albeit a bit grimly. "Yeah. And you should have known better than to risk turning into an anime cat-girl, by that logic."

"Yeah," Cordelia said, slumping in her seat. She waved a hand, "Sorry. Just... all this is getting to me, now that we've slowed down a bit and actually got a full night's – day's – sleep."

"Yeah. Not so much with the _sleeping_ in the night," Xander said.

"Hey, now," Rory said. "I don't need to be hearing that. What happened to no fraternizing?"

"Sh'yeah, like you _so_ thought _that_ was gonna not happen," Cordelia said, grinning.

"Hey, you sounded pretty adamant about it yesterday," Rory said, grinning at her.

"A moment of temporary insanity came over me," Cordelia said.

"That lasted for, oh, hours and hours," Xander said, grinning at her.

"Oh, shut up."

"It sure was fun, though."

"Yeah," Cordelia said, grinning back, "It so really was, Goofy." She tossed her head, flipping hair out of her eyes. "It was that. Guess that Nerd movie was accurate, huh? Whoda thunk it."

"Good to see you guys finally getting past slap slap kissy kissy after all these years," Rory said, laughing. "So, you gonna have enough of these?" He motioned toward the charges and the improvised rockets, both shaped and HE incendiary warheads.

"Nope. Never," Xander said, only partially tongue in cheek. "But it's all we had the stuff to make."

"And all we can carry if we have to run on foot," Cordelia said. "Which would so very much suck."

"So... any thoughts on where to next?" Xander said, looking at her.

"My parents lake house at Cachuma?"

"Huh. Same objection: Harm and even Larry know about it, even if Larry doesn't know where it is exactly," Xander said. "Besides, something about the idea of being trapped out there with only a few roads out to run on gives me chills."

"Yeah... " Cordelia cocked her head, looking thoughtful. "It _is_ remote enough to stand and fight, though, without staging Desert Storm II in the middle of L.A."

"Standing and fighting gives me worse chills," Xander said. "If you had Hicks' memories of actually fighting those things in open battles like I do... "

"Hey, I have perfectly good ones of him doing the whole ominous walk thing at the Bronze, killing everything in its way, thank you," Cordelia said, shivering yet again. "And you putting round after round of twelve gauge into it without barely even slowing it down."

"Yeah... "

"And Owen's head going like one of the melons Daddy used to demo 'guns are dangerous' with, and Aphrodesia flopping all boneless on the table," Cordelia said. "I just _know_ I'm gonna have nightmares about those."

"And me of not being able to freaking _move_ though the dance floor crowd fast enough to _do_ anything," Xander said, nodding.

"Hey hey, live now, kids," Rory said. "Go through PTSD later, all right? Believe you me: it'll just get in the way of you doin' what you need to do to keep each other alive."

"Yeah. Easy to say, Rory," Cordelia said.

"I know," he said. "And I've had to do it, too. So I know how hard the practice is."

"Yeah... " Cordelia shook her head tiredly. "Guess that what can't be cured – "

"– Must be endured," Xander said, exchanging a wry smile and glance with her.

"Too true to be a joke," Rory said, nodding. "There just ain't no real cure for Combat Fatigue, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or whatever they're calling it these days. Just recovery, kinda like alcoholism."

"Gee, that's encouraging," Cordelia said, making a face. She waved a hand irritably, adding, "And yeah, I know: it is what it is. I'm just gonna have to get used to this stuff."

"Not like we haven't had some practice already," Xander said. Leaving his seat, he moved around the table and bent to give her a long, searingly slow deep kiss.

"Umm." Cordelia smiled into his lips, and pulled back with her eyes half closed. "You can just keep that up for, oh, about a day past forever."

"Love to," Xander said.

Rory grinned at them from the other side of the table, and started to pack the explosives away into a gear bag.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __South Marion Drive Sunnydale Medical Complex__, Sunnydale, Evening 5:30pm –_

As they came to the room, from outside the open door, they could hear a girl's clear voice speaking softly, yet with intense excitement.

Zabuto paused, listening, and held up his hand for Giles to stop. Giles bent forward slightly, standing next to him from outside the door and the view of those in the room.

"_'Once Mowgli passed Akela, a dhole on either flank, and his all but toothless jaws closed over the loins of a third; and once he saw Phao, his teeth set in the throat of a dhole, tugging the unwilling beast forward till the yearlings could finish him. But the bulk of the fight was blind flurry and smother in the dark; hit, trip, and tumble, yelp, groan, and worry-worry-worry, round him and behind him and above him. As the night wore on, the quick, giddy-go-round motion increased. The dholes were cowed and afraid to attack the stronger wolves, but did not yet dare to run away. Mowgli felt that the end was coming soon, and contented himself with striking merely to cripple. The yearlings were growing bolder; there was time now and again to breathe, and pass a word to a friend, and the mere flicker of the knife would sometimes turn a dog aside,__'_" the girl's voice said.

"Hmm. That sounds like Aura," Giles said, softly.

"_'The meat is very near the bone,' Gray Brother yelled. He was bleeding from a score of flesh-wounds._

_'But the bone is yet to be cracked,' said Mowgli. 'Eowawa! THUS do we do in the Jungle!' The red blade ran like a flame along the side of a dhole whose hind-quarters were hidden by the weight of a clinging wolf._

_'My kill!' snorted the wolf through his wrinkled nostrils. 'Leave him to me.'_

_'Is thy stomach _still_ empty, Outlier?' said Mowgli. Won-tolla was fearfully punished, but his grip had paralysed the dhole, who could not turn round and reach him._

_'By the Bull that bought me,' said Mowgli, with a bitter laugh, 'it is the tailless one!' And indeed it was the big bay-coloured leader._

_'It is not wise to kill cubs and lahinis,' Mowgli went on philosophically, wiping the blood out of his eyes, 'unless one has also killed the Outlier; and it is in my stomach that _this _Won-tolla kills _thee_.'_

_A dhole leaped to his leader's aid; but before his teeth had found Won-tolla's flank, Mowgli's knife was in his throat, and Gray Brother took what was left._

_'And _thus_ do we do in the Jungle,' said Mowgli._

_Won-tolla said not a word, only his jaws were closing and closing on the backbone as his life ebbed. The dhole shuddered, his head dropped, and he lay still, and Won-tolla dropped above him._

_'Huh! The Blood Debt is paid,' said Mowgli. 'Sing the song, Won-tolla.'_

_'He hunts no more,' said Gray Brother; 'and Akela, too, is silent this long time.'_

_'The bone is cracked!' thundered Phao, son of Phaona. 'They go! Kill, kill _out_, O hunters of the Free People!'_

_Dhole after dhole was slinking away from those dark and bloody sands to the river, to the thick Jungle, up-stream or down-stream as he saw the road clear._

_'The debt! The debt!' shouted Mowgli. 'Pay the debt! They have slain the Lone Wolf! Let not a dog go!'_

_He was flying to the river, knife in hand, to check any dhole who dared to take water, when, from under a mound of nine dead, rose Akela's head and fore-quarters, and Mowgli dropped on his knees beside the Lone Wolf... __'_"

"Sad dat dey killed the Outlier, and Akela," another girl's voice said. "But it is good dat Won-tolla took his vengeance."

"Yeah," Aura said. "I cried when I first heard that part a long time ago. And the dhole scared hell out of me when we were little kids."

"Dey are still scary de way dat Kipling paints dem," the other girl said. "De Little People of de Rocks are more so."

Smiling slightly, Giles glanced at his companion and pushed the door the rest of the way open, stepping in.

"Mr. Giles?" Aura said, closing the book in her lap with a finger held inside to mark the pages.

"Hello, Aura," Giles said, smiling. "Kendra. I've brought a visitor to see you."

Kendra's eyes widened as she saw Samuel Zabuto wheeled into the room behind Giles, by Ms. Calendar. "Mr. Zabuto?"

"Kendra," Zabuto said, "It is wonderful to see you well, and recovering."

"Sir," Kendra said, her eyes very dark in that unnaturally pale face. "I must tell you dat I failed in my mission."

"Nonsen – " Zabuto started to say, frowning, but Aura cut him off, her eyes flashing at the other girl.

"Oh you _so_ did _not_!" Aura said, heatedly. "I _told_ you to stop that crap. You may not have found or stopped Rayne, but you helped Jesse keep me and Buffy alive. We'd have been dead without you, dammit."

Giles removed his glasses, taking out a cloth to polish them and bending his head slightly to hide a smile. "True enough, that. And _we_ were not able to stop Ethan even when we discovered him – his incantation had taken on a life of its own and had to run its course by then."

"See?"

"Mr. Zabuto. Dey will not listen to me," Kendra said, frowning. She raised the arm without the IV tube in it, and pointed at Aura. "And she – _she_ is impossible."

"I've heard that about American teenagers," Zabuto said, smiling slightly. "It appears that the rumors are correct."

"Dey are! She is willful, stubborn, irreverent, and completely... "

"Unwilling to take any of your objections seriously?" Aura said, grinning.

"Dat too," Kendra said, her voice grumpy. "And she is conspiring wit de doctors here to not allow me to get up."

"Tsk tsk," Giles said, working studiously at cleaning his already immaculate spectacles. "Is this true, Aura?"

"Oh, yeah. She's going to take it easy and recover if it kills me," Aura said. She glared at the other girl, "And it just might."

Jenny Calendar snickered, and Samuel Zabuto made a strange, muffled noise in his throat. Kendra looked at him, wide eyed, and then her eyes narrowed.

"You are laughing. It is not funny, sir," Kendra said, her expression that of someone mortally wounded and long suffering. "It is not!"

"I beg to differ, Kendra," Zabuto said, chuckling. "I am finding it quite amusing." Kendra sniffed and glared at him, while Aura shot him a blazingly white grin.

"Aura, this is Kendra's Watcher, Sam Zabuto," Jenny said, smiling at them.

"So I gather," Aura said. Rising, she put out her hand and shook Zabuto's. "Aura Breckenridge."

Kendra nodded, and said, "Yes. Dis is Aura. She is my... friend." The last came out almost shyly, and Kendra scowled, and her voice firmed. "Dat is to say, she insists upon being my friend."

"True, that," Aura said, nodding. "I do."

"Thank you," Zabuto said, gravely. "I am pleased that you do so. Rupert and Ms. Calendar have been telling me a great deal about you, young lady. Kendra is honored by having a friend such as yourself."

"Ah." Aura waved her hand vaguely, the one not holding the hardback book.

"Err, Kipling?" Giles said. Replacing his glasses, he peered at Aura over the lenses.

"Well, yeah," Aura said, nodding. "The Second Jungle Book. And hey – did you know that Kendra's never read either of the Jungle Books? Or the Princess Bride, even?"

"Really?" Both of Giles' eyebrows went up. "Inconceivable." Jenny choked on a laugh, turning it into a fit of coughing and turning away slightly.

"I do not think that that word means what you seem to think it means," Aura said.

"Dey are making fun of us," Kendra said to Zabuto, giving Aura a dark look. "Dey do dat ting."

"We do, yup," Aura said.

"I told you not to make fun of me," Kendra said, her voice and expression sulky.

"No. _You_ asked me not to make fun of your _accent_, and I haven't since," Aura said, grinning and looking completely unrepentant. "And it's called _teasing_. Friends do that here. Get used to it."

"My fault, I'm afraid," Zabuto said, smiling at both of them. "I wasn't very practiced at raising a child when Kendra first came to me, and I'm afraid I didn't indulge her with reading purely for pleasure at the time."

"I was four, I am told," Kendra said, still sounding sulky.

"Ah. Well, shame on you," Aura said, looking at Zabuto. She sat back down in her chair by Kendra's bedside. Jenny Calendar watched the exchanges curiously.

"I am somewhat surprised that you've read Kipling, Aura," Giles said.

Aura shrugged. "I grew up with Cordelia," she said, "Literally. As in, my parents used to bring me over there when we were both three. Cordelia's dad used to read us the Jungle Books and the Princess Bride at night, for bedtime stories." Aura grinned at him, "Man. I don't know how many times the five of us got in trouble during the first grade for playing Mowgli and the Seeonee pack in the woods back of Cordy's house, and up by their lake house. Her, me, Xander, Will, and Jesse."

"Really?" Jenny said. She was examining Aura curiously as if she was having problems picturing the young socialite in such a situation, even as a small child.

"Really," Aura said, grinning. "Cordelia and I were lahinis of the Pack, and Xander was always Bagheera. Jesse was Mowgli, natch. We'd come in all filthy and, like, _covered_ with leaves and woodsy crap."

"I'm seriously having a hard time imagining that," Jenny said. "You've both always seemed so... "

Aura nodded, grinning still. "Oh yeah. Cordelia was, like, _seriously_ a tomboy when we were kids."

"I've always loved Kipling myself," Zabuto said. "It is nice to see a modern teenager with an appreciation for the old man. As well, an American teenager, even more so."

Aura's smiled turned slightly glittery at him. "You mean one that's not an illiterate barbarian?" Zabuto's face darkened and he began to splutter something. Aura sliced across whatever it was. "I'd say it's just lovely to encounter a Brit that doesn't get that patronizing and condescending tone whenever they see an American with a bit of culture, but so far, I haven't met any."

"Aura!" Kendra said, her voice shocked.

"Ahem." Giles said, scowling at her.

Zabuto let out a rich, deep, and genuine laugh, startling all of them. "I do believe I had that coming, young lady," he said. he glanced at Giles. "I see that your warnings were correct. Your Slayer's young compatriots are definitely not to be taken lightly."

"Aura," Jenny said, "Dr. Zabuto has traveled a long way, and he didn't do so to be sniped at."

"Sorry." Aura said. She didn't sound or look very apologetic.

"Quite all right, dear," Zabuto said, waving it off. "As I said, I believe I set myself up for that."

Aura nodded. "You did. My family may be _nouveau riche_, but that doesn't mean we're lacking in breeding or upbringing."

"Manners, on the other hand," Giles began...

"Hey!" Aura said. "My manners are impeccable. When I choose to use them." She grinned at him.

"See? As I said. Completely impossible," Kendra said.

"I've always believed that knowing when manners are called for, and when they're not, is a sign of good character," Zabuto said, still chuckling. "I do wish to thank you sincerely for attempting to take care of Kendra while she was here."

Aura made a face. "Afraid we didn't do so well on that one." She gestured toward the bed.

"Nonsense." Zabuto said. "I've seen the news video. I'm not certain that a squad of SAS, or Council Hunters, could have done much better against that beast man. Your friend Jesse was most impressive."

"He was that, in three different fights," Aura said, nodding. "Wish I'd seen that second one, but I was unconscious for part of it, and in Angel's car for the rest while we were rushing Kendra to the hospital."

"De vumpire saved me life," Kendra said.

"So I have been told," Zabuto said, nodding. "The Scourge of Europe, at that – most extraordinary. I should like to meet this unusual vampire."

"That may be a few days," Jenny said. "Creed nearly broke most of the bones in Angel's body when he attacked us that last time."

"Kendra wanted to stake him for most of the night," Aura said. "Kinda glad she didn't, now."

"Aura stood off and nearly slew Drusilla," Kendra said, her eyes wide. "She was coming to revenge herself upon me, I'm told."

"Quite," Giles said.

"Indeed," Zabuto said, nodding. "Kendra... you may not have identified and prevented the rising, but your slaying of William the Bloody was impressive and long overdue. We'll speak of the rest when you've recovered more."

"You'd best not chew her out," Aura said, frowning.

"Of course not," Zabuto said. "We will, however, discuss what might have been done differently, such as Kendra making contact with Giles and yourselves earlier."

Aura stared at him, and then looked at Giles, who shrugged back at her.

"Aura, he is me Watcher," Kendra said, frowning slightly at her. "Mr. Zabuto has not only de right, but it is expected dat he will critique me performance in de field."

"Well, yeah, maybe," Aura said. "But still... "

"Else how do you expect me to become a better Slayer?" Kendra said, sounding tired and exasperated.

"Don't worry, Miss Breckenridge," Zabuto said, "I have no intention of chastising my Slayer. She was sent, by necessity, alone into what I know is a very strange environment for her, to accomplish a task that by all rights should have required a Slayer _and_ Watcher working together, at the very least. And then landed in the midst of a very confusing and disruptive situation. On the contrary – I couldn't be prouder of her for what she did accomplish."

"Except dat I failed in me mission," Kendra said, sounding a bit stubborn and petulant.

"We'll discuss that," Zabuto said. "Now, I believe your friend was in the midst of finishing telling you of the end of the Dhole... "

* * *

.


	12. All Along the Watchtower

**Chapter Forty-seven: All Along the Watchtower...**

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __East Creston Street__, Harris home, Sunnydale, Night 11:00pm –_

Anthony Harris was nursing a whiskey and soda, his second of the night.

He wasn't exactly unhappy with himself. By all rights, normally at this point it should be his sixth or seventh. One and a half was progress. One and a third, actually. He hadn't yet hit the half empty mark on this one.

"Anything interesting on?" Jessica Harris wandered into the den, holding a beer of her own.

"Naw. Some crap on History Channel that wasn't worth watching, and a crap movie on HBO," Tony said. "So, I switched it to an old John Wayne flik on Westerns Channel."

"Oh? Which one," Jessica asked. She came over and perched on the arm of the overstuffed easy chair next to Tony's.

"The Cowboys," Tony said. "Seen it a dozen times with the Kid, but hell, it's still better than ninety percent of the crap on nowadays."

"Uh huh," Jessica said. She glanced at his glass, and said, "Thought you were giving it up again."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Tony said, the corners of his lips curling up into a half smile. Normally, that would have sparked an instant argument, but... Just didn't seem to be worth the trouble tonight. "Am. Going back to meetings after work tomorrow."

"Sorry," Jessica said, waving a hand vaguely. "My inner Alanon coming out again, I guess." She sighed. "I'm really, really worried about Xander."

"Yeah," Tony said, nodding. He took another measured sip of the whiskey. "And hey, no prob. As we know: in Alanon there _is_ no recovery."

"Apparently, there's not in AA either," Jessica said, smiling wryly at him. Tony laughed, not without a bit of bitterness. "So, do you think... "

Tony looked at her, raising a pair of thick eyebrows.

Jessica shrugged, and said, "That there's any truth to what that CHP detective said? Or they're saying on the news, you know, about Xander?"

"Hell," Tony said, shrugging. "Dunno." He took a larger sip of the whiskey. "Do I think the Kid would assault some cops and steal a squad car and a bunch of guns? Or go spree killer and shoot up a club? _Hell_, no."

"But?"

"Do I think that he'd do anything, no matter how fucking insane it was, if Cordy was threatened around him?" Tony shook his head, and said, "Once? I wouldn't even have to answer that one. It'd be a given."

"That was a long time ago, Tony," Jessica said, sighing. "They were little bitty kids, then."

"I know." Tony nodded, shrugging. "I know. Hell, I been trying to figure this shit out for two days now. And then there was that fucking insane shit at the Fish Tank, with that guy."

"That one is hard to believe," Jessica said. "And I can't believe you gave him your _truck_."

"What, you wanted me to throw a punch at him?" Tony raised his eyebrows at her again.

"No, but... "

"Babe, I wouldn't have tackled that guy with anything man portable, not after what I saw in there," Tony Harris said. "Not even back when I was in the Corps."

"Well, apparently, Xander did," Jessica said, "Based on what that Detective said."

"Yeah, well... the Kid never was all that bright," Tony said. He swirled his drink around in the glass, and then finished it. He began to debate whether he should fix another one or not.

At least it was a _debate_, this time. Not a _must_ do.

Jessica opened her mouth to say something, then closed it abruptly and looked to the front of the house as the doorbell chimed.

She and Tony exchanged looks.

"Who the fuck?"

"At this time of night?"

The front door was already opening as Tony and Jessica were rising from their respective seats, and heavy footsteps sounded in the entry way...

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris property, Near Ojai, Night 11:10pm –_

«We got movement,» unexpectedly came through Buckley's command headset. _Always_ unexpected, Buckley thought, no matter _how_ hard you were expecting it. «CHP cruiser just pulled up out front.»

"ID?" Buckley said into his mike.

«Negative. Not yet.» First Sergeant Michael Dixon, formerly US Marines Force Recon, said into his mike way back in town from outside the Harris house. «Bad angle. Big guy, real big, but a lot of troopers are... »

"All right," Buckley said, exchanging glances with Cheng. "Try and ID, if possible - "

«Crap. It's him. Gotta be – don't think Chippies carry long barreled HK MP5's on a door knock. And a freaking grenade launcher.» Dixon said, quietly. «Permission to en – fuck! Sonofabitch just turned the knob, opened the fucking _door_, and walked in. Doesn't _anyone_ lock their fucking _doors_ in this town?»

"Crap," Buckley said, shaking his head.

"When it all goes sideways... " Cheng said, and then swore softly.

"Yeah," Buckley said, agreeing with both sentiments.

«_Fuck_. Permission to engage on dismount, Major?»

Buckley sighed, quietly to himself and not letting a sound of it escape into the mike. "Close quarters. Can you do so, alone, without endangering yourself, the mission, and more important, any other civilians?"

«Shit, sir.» There was a sigh across the frequency. «Probably not.»

"Then hold and observe, Dix. We need to stay on him and see where he's headed," Buckley said. This time the sigh did come out vocally.

«Roger that, sir. Sucks, sir.»

"It does at that," Buckley said.

«Fuck! Got gunfire. Heavy caliber pistol, two shots. Three..» More swearing came over the signal, and Buckley didn't blame Dixon a bit for it. «Fuck. More shots.»

"All right, Dix," Buckley said. "Tag his vehicle if you can while he's engaged. Get a tracker on it."

«Roger and wilco,» came back the sardonic response. «Might as well salvage something useful outta this Charlie Foxtrot.»

"Might as well," Buckley agreed. Changing frequencies, he said into his mike, "Allred: get Swayze out at Fort Halleck and tell him to get that fucking bird in the air. Then tell Michaela to get ready to break off on my word and go join Swayze for a pickup."

«Roger that,» Allred's soft voice said into his own mike. «On it, sir.»

«Got telemetry, major," Lieutenant Keisha Barkley's voice cut in. «Apparently Dix got a working tag down.»

"Good. At least that's something," Buckley said.

"Sir?" Cheng gave Buckley a curious look.

"Stand ready for now, Cheng," Buckley said, his voice quiet and grim. "Sunnydale is a long way off yet. Even if he gets Intel leading him here, we've got time before he hits the perimeter."

Cheng nodded and started checking over the recoiless settled in before him.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __East Creston Street__, Harris home, Sunnydale, Night 11:15pm –_

The T101L entered the Harris home easily, merely walking in through the unlocked front door. Once inside the foyer, he cocked his head slightly, listening for his targets.

Ah. There. Movement, voices, and moving footsteps.

The movement came to his position in the foyer, and ended abruptly.

"Anthony Harris," the T101L stated. Not really a question: he didn't need confirmation. DMV records had given him a visual from the human's most recent driver's license image.

"Who the fuck – " Anthony Harris stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, it's you. What the fuck do you want? And the fuck are you doing in my house?"

"Tony?" Jessica Harris, also identifiable from her DMV records, clutched at the human male's arm. He shrugged her off irritably.

"The guy from the Fish Tank, Jess," Anthony Harris said.

"I wish the current location of Alexander Harris and Cordelia Chase-Harris," the T101L said. "Or any possible location where they may be found."

"The hell... ?" Anthony Harris blinked at him, and the T101L could hear his heart rate increasing. "Oh, _hell_ no. I done gave you my truck and you wrecked it. Ain't giving you my boy."

"Is that your final response?" the T101L said.

"No. My final fucking response is fuck you, asshole," Anthony Harris said. He began to raise the heavy revolver in his right hand.

"Wrong response," the T101L. Even starting with the gun through his belt behind his hip, and not particularly hurrying, the Terminator still beat the human's .44 Magnum online. Anthony Harris' first, rushed shot missed.

The Terminator's did not, nor did his second. The .44 Magnum rounds from the Desert Eagle in his right hand hit Anthony Harris in the center of the chest, both of them, and the human began to collapse backward. The heavy revolver began to fall from a suddenly limp hand, after a brief spasmodic clenching of the fingers fired it once more into the floor.

Jessica Harris screamed, spun, and ran toward the rear of the house, nearly falling on the slick tiles of the foyer, and having to scramble back upright.

The T101L aimed the large automatic and calmly shot her in the back of the right knee, and she went down, screaming.

The T101L walked heavily over to the downed and shrilly screaming woman, and turned her over easily with the right toe of his heavy boot. Placing his right foot on her shoulder, he stepped down to hold her in place, and aimed the heavy semi-automatic handgun nearly straight down into her face.

Jessica Harris stopped screaming, her eyes wide and with white showing all the way around. "Please, oh God, please... don't kill me too, please... "

A loud clap of sound and a heavy impact on its back caused the Terminator to pause and turn back to Tony Harris. It fired twice more, eliminating the negligible threat...

It returned its attentions to the horror struck and terrified Jessica Harris.

"I require the locations, or possible locations, of Alexander Harris and Cordelia Chase-Harris."

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris property, Near Ojai, Night 11:25pm –_

«Crap.» Dixon's voice came back over the headset. «He is coming out, on the move.»

"Roger that, Dix," Buckley said. "Hang back and follow it."

«Copy that.» Dixon said. «Am I cleared to engage if necessary?»

Major Buckley didn't have to ask for clarification on the 'if necessary'. His subordinate was requesting clearance to engage to prevent any further civilian casualties if needed. He sighed, and said in to his headset mike, "Can you engage _effectively_ if needed?"

«Target is moving. Am giving it a moment, then pulling out to follow,» Dixon said, followed by, «Have a DSR-1 in .338 Lapua with a full power load. I can at least make it know I am present and accounted for, sir.»

"Roger that," Buckley said, thinking furiously. "Tentative permission only, and _only_ if you have a safe solution. Will confirm as the moment arises."

They had only tentative data and knowledge of the thing's weak spots, if it had any, and where its vitals might be located. They had zero actual confirmation that its internal makeup actually resembled the creature from the Terminator films. What they _did_ have was confirmed data that it was relatively invulnerable to small arms fire of most types, including heavy twelve gauge slugs, and 7.62mm rifle fire.

Dr. Maggie Walsh and her Captain Riley Finn were confident that their 'Special' electronic beam weapons were capable of disrupting the thing's electronic components and freezing it up and taking it offline so that it could be secured. Buckley wasn't nearly as sanguine on that concept...

He'd both seen and _had_ bad experience with experimental and virtually untested weaponry in field conditions before.

Lethally bad experiences.

«Target appears to be heading for Michaela's position, Boss Man,» Keisha Barkley said from her tracking console at Walsh's base. «Dix is following. Have green lights on all.»

"Roger that," Buckley said. "Heads up, Reeves, you have potential incoming."

«Copy that. I have been apprised,» Michaela's sultry and ice cold tones came across the headsets. «Am alert and ready.»

"Crap. This is a cluster fuck in the making," Cheng said, softly.

"Agreed," Buckley said. "Michaela," he said into his headset, "Remember, you and Dix _both_: we are not getting paid to die for any reason. We get paid to make _them_ die."

«Roger that, Major. We're also not paid to bring ammo back home, either. Michaela out.»

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Night 11:45pm –_

"I'm really glad that Miss Buffy is going to be all right, Mrs. Summers," Princess Wicked said. "And that she was already looking better today."

"Thank you, Ephasia," Joyce Summers said, smiling at the almost rigidly polite and formal little girl. "So am I."

Sighing, Dawn nodded. "Me too. Even if she is a pain, most of the time."

"She's your big sister, Dawn," Joyce said, smiling at her youngest. Youngest actually flesh and blood daughter, anyway. Looked like she was fast on the way to adding several younger adopted ones... "She's _supposed_ to be a major pain – it's in the sister contract. So... another round of hot chocolates, and then bedtime?"

There were several nods and a chorus of 'yes ma'ams' from around the dining room table as all of the faces there brightened. She was really going to have to do something about these late bedtimes, very soon. Almost midnight or later was far too late for nine to eleven year old girls to be calling it a night.

The front doorbell rang as Joyce was rising from her seat.

"Hrmm. Who could that be at this time of the night?" Joyce frowned, turning toward the front. She paused for a moment, trying to recall if she'd set the locks and the deadbolt this time.

After the events of Halloween night in this town, Joyce Summers had determined to kill the habit of leaving doors unlocked forever. It was a sentiment that all of her new family members agreed with wholeheartedly. And Dawn as well...

Remembering that she had, she nodded to herself and went to the front of the house, after saying, "I'll be just a moment, dears. All of you wait here."

Joyce's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the CHP uniform on her front porch. What the... oh, no.

She very nearly flung the door open, before the sight of the officer's face gave her pause. She'd never seen a CHP officer, nor any police officer, really, with such heavy scarring. Nor with dark shades on at night...

"Yes?"

"Police, ma'am," the officer heavily accented voice said through the door. "Open up. I'm here to speak to you about your daughter."

"All right, just give me a moment please," Joyce said, thinking furiously. She peered through the peephole, trying to see better what she was dealing with.

Her breath caught in her throat again, suddenly, and she swallowed hard.

She had met Andrew Blaisdell's son briefly at Parent's Night, before all of the insanity had broken out. She'd even made a slight note of the boy, based upon Buffy's mentioning that he was a bully and a thug who picked on her friends. It was hard to tell for certain with the sunglasses and the shiny scarring, and that accent, but... Joyce stepped back from the door, calling out through it, "Give me a moment, please. I need to put on a robe first, officer."

Turning, she saw her youngest and Stephanie in the doorway of the dining room, watching curiously. Good.

Well, bad in that they hadn't obeyed her, but good in that she didn't have to yell for them.

"Dawn. Stephanie," Joyce said, quietly and a lot more calmly than she felt. "Get _everyone_. Out the back door, _now_. And _run_. Do _not_ stop, you hear me?"

Both girl's eyes widened, and they stared at her, and then at the door with their eyes narrowing again. The doorknob rattled as the person – not a police officer, Joyce was _sure_ of that now – tried it.

"Go. Go find Mr. Giles and _stay_ with him. _Go_."

Wonder of wonders... both girls turned on their heels without a word and ran, Dawn back into the dining room, Stephanie for the den. She heard Dawn call out, "Pook! With me," softly as she disappeared through the dining room archway.

Maybe there was something worthwhile to this little Irregulars thing after all.

There came a sharp, flat, and very loud crack from outside the door, followed by the heavy thud of a body slamming into the front wall of the house.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris property, Near Ojai, Night 11:50pm –_

«I have a solution,» Dixon's voice came over the headset. «Do I have permission.»

Buckley sighed. This was going to precipitate things with Walsh and her people, he just knew it. Probably a lot faster than he had wanted them precipitated... "You have a go, Dix. Make it count."

There wasn't a verbal response over the channel. Just a momentary silence followed by the sound of a short barreled .338 Lapua going off like the clap of doom, probably with the muzzle brake outside the van's passenger window, and the fore-end rested on the driver's upraised knee.

«We have a hit.» Michaela's emotionless voice came over. «Target staggered but not down.»

There was the mechanical sound of a bolt being worked in recoil, followed by a second shot moments later.

«That's two hits.» Michaela reported. «Target is – oh, fuck – »

"Oh, fuck?" Buckley said. Cheng looked over at him, the heavy weapons man's eyes widening. "_Michaela!_ Report!"

«oh fuck fuck fuck fuck me running – »

On the other end of the comm connection, something blew up with a flat, muffled sound that was still way too loud in the headset. Michaela Reeves was apparently far too busy with her own evasions to respond, but a steady litany of fucks came through the headset's channel.

«Damn. Telemetry on Dix is _gone_, Major.» Keisha Barkley's voice said over the headset channel. A second muffled and far too loud explosion sounded across the channel, and Buckley cursed.

"Barkley!" Major Buckley said into his mike, his voice quiet and urgent. "Telem on Reeves. Report!"

«Active and moving, Major.» Barkley said, her calm voice at almost surreal odds with Major Buckley's increasing blood pressure. «Green light, and moving. I repeat: Reeves telemetry is green.»

"Thank gods," Buckley said. "Reeves, get the hell out of there. Do _not_ engage solo, read me?"

«Got it, Major. Am moving. Reeves out.»

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale, Night 11:55pm –_

Static filled the ocular receptors and graphics translation modules of the T101L as a heavy, high velocity projectile slammed unexpectedly into the back of its head. It wasn't aware that it staggered forward and slammed against the solid hardwood door that it had been speaking through a moment before.

Characters and numerals scrolled across its awareness far faster than thoughts would have in a human brain.

.

ERROR 30 78 31 31 41 0x11A 110000 1111000 110001 110101 1000 PRIMARY OPERATING SYSTEM FAILURE INITIALIZING REBOOT

50 52 49 4D 41 52 59 20 4F 50 45 52 41 54 49 4E 47 20 53 59 53 54 45 4D 20 46 41 49 4C 55 52 45 20 49 4E 49 54 49 41 4C 49 5A 49 4E 47 20 52 45 42 4F 4F 54 0A

1010000 1010010 1001001 1001101 1000001 1010010 1011001 100000 1001111 1010000 1000101 1010010 1000001 1010100 1001001 1001110 1000111 100000 1010011 1011001 1010011 1010100 1000101 1001101 100000 1000110 1000001 1001001 1001100 1010101 1010010 1000101 100000 1001001 1001110 1001001 1010100 1001001 1000001 1001100 1001001 1011010 1001001 1001110 1000111 100000 1010010 1000101 1000010 1001111 1001111 1010100 100000

ERROR PRIMARY CPU FAILURE SHUTDOWN IMMINENT REBOOT INIT

1000101 1010010 1010010 1001111 1010010 100000 1010000 1010010 1001001 1001101 1000001 1010010 1011001 100000 1000011 1010000 1010101 100000 1000110 1000001 1001001 1001100 1010101 1010010 1000101 100000 1010011 1001000 1010101 1010100 1000100 1001111 1010111 1001110 100000 1001001 1001101 1001101 1001001 1001110 1000101 1001110 1010100 100000 1010010 1000101 1000010 1001111 1001111 1010100 100000 1001001 1001110 1001001 1010100

ERROR_ABIOS_ERROR 30 78 32 31 41 0x21A 110000 1111000 110010 110001 1000001 REBOOT INITIALIZATION FAILED

1010010 1000101 1000010 1001111 1001111 1010100 100000 1001001 1001110 1001001 1010100 1001001 1000001 1001100 1001001 1011010 1000001 1010100 1001001 1001111 1001110 100000 1000110 1000001 1001001 1001100 1000101 1000100

ERROR_FAIL_RESTART 30 78 31 36 30 0x160 110011 110000 100000 110111 111000 100000 110011 110001 100000 110011 110001 100000 110100 110001 100000

INTIALIZING SECONDARY REBOOT ATTEMPT

.

The Calax International Series 850 Model T101L was not, strictly speaking, identical to the Terminator designs in the two films from this continuum and time line. Indeed, it would be odd for that to be the case. The best imaginings of a film maker and special effects crew couldn't possibly take into account every single thing needed to produce and make functional an operating combat cyborg.

In this case as well, the T101L was not just the product of James Cameron's film imaginings seen through the filter of a pair of teens. It was the product of Chaos magic, brought to life, and at least partially influenced by the imaginings and reimaginings of a teen who was a life long sci-fi and hard sci-fi geek. One who also had a genius level friend who was well versed in computers, and quite capable of figuring out how a _real_ robotic system _should_ work, and excellent at explaining her ideas... It was also the product of an alternate future world line where such things were possible, actualized, and had been brought into being by a malevolent demon possessed computer network, and also magically influenced in the construction and design.

In short, it was an amalgamation of a number of computing designs and imaginings, all of them merged and made real by the will and intent of a greater deity when the Chaos spell had brought it into being. _Not_ merely a magical copy of the film monsters.

Also, strictly speaking, the Terminators in the film franchise were robots, not true cyborgs. In the very best hard science fiction tradition, a cyborg is a melding of organic organism with robotic components and, often, a computer brain. This was a thing that at the very least, Alexander Harris had been quite aware of, and to a certain extent, the Chaos spell had borrowed from his memories. The film Terminators were robots with a flesh covering – an android wearing a meat suit. The Series 850 T101L was a true cyborg: it had a living brain, or at least part of one, melded to a positronic computer brain, with robotic parts.

It was also properly designed as a true combat cyborg: with full redundancy and redundant systems.

Including backup processing systems and a backup CPU and robotic brain.

While the error messages were flashing through its primary central processing unit and it was in the process of primary systems failure coupled with rebooting errors, the T101L was righting itself, unslinging the grenade launcher it had taken from the Series 720's stores, and moving forward.

Another, second, massive impact slammed into its metal armored and reinforced cranium as it did so. The T101L's primary positronic brain went into full shutdown mode. Its secondary brain took over primary processing immediately. The organic primary brain components were stunned initially, but otherwise undamaged and unaffected.

TRACKING... SCANNING... THREAT IDENTIFIED... THREAT LOCATED... TARGETING... TARGET IDENTIFIED... TARGET LOCKED...

The T101L's targeting reticule overlay located and locked onto the dark green van that had cruised slowly and quietly to a stop across the street while it had been speaking with the human Joyce Summers. It locked onto and registered, and recognized, the protrusion through the passenger window as the muzzle of a heavy caliber firearm.

It fired the grenade launcher from the hip, and a 40mm HE incendiary delayed burst projectile impacted on the van's passenger side door _much_ less than a second later. The van exploded from the inside out as the 40mm projectile easily penetrated the thin sheet steel of the door, and the plastic composites beyond that, detonating inside the driver's compartment.

The T101L was already reloading the moment the first projectile was fired.

TRACKING... SCANNING... SECONDARY THREAT IDENTIFIED... THREAT LOCATED... TARGETING... TARGET IDENTIFIED... TARGET LOCKED...

The next grenade hit the bright blue van that had been parked in the driveway of a house with a FOR SALE and a realtors sign out front, several addresses up from the Summers residence. It also detonated from the inside out, sending vehicular components and shrapnel spiraling and wheeling upward and outward from the detonation.

The T101L's auditory sensors registered a trio of flat, sharp, loud reports fired almost as one single shot, nearly simultaneously with three hard sequential impacts upon its thoracic armoring...

Static haze swept across the T101L's secondary visual processors. The trio of impacts were followed nearly immediately by a sharp impact on its thorax, and a loud explosion.

.

ERROR SECONDARY CPU FAILURE SHUTDOWN IMMINENT REBOOT INIT 45 52 52 4F 52 20 53 45 43 4F 4E 44 41 52 59 20 43 50 55 20 46 41 49 4C 55 52 45 20 53 48 55 54 44 4F 57 4E 20 49 4D 4D 49 4E 45 4E 54 20 52 45 42 4F 4F 54 20 49 4E 49 54 20

1000101 1010010 1010010 1001111 1010010 100000 1010011 1000101 1000011 1001111 1001110 1000100 1000001 1010010 1011001 100000 1000011 1010000 1010101 100000 1000110 1000001 1001001 1001100 1010101 1010010 1000101 100000 1010011 1001000 1010101 1010100 1000100 1001111 1010111 1001110 100000 1001001 1001101 1001101 1001001 1001110 1000101 1001110 1010100 100000 1010010 1000101 1000010 1001111 1001111 1010100 100000 1001001 1001110 1001001 1010100 100000

PRIMARY OPERATING SYSTEM FAILURE INITIALIZING REBOOT 50 52 49 4D 41 52 59 20 4F 50 45 52 41 54 49 4E 47 20 53 59 53 54 45 4D 20 46 41 49 4C 55 52 45 20 49 4E 49 54 49 41 4C 49 5A 49 4E 47 20 52 45 42 4F 4F 54 0A

REBOOT INITIALIZATION FAILED

1010010 1000101 1000010 1001111 1001111 1010100 100000 1001001 1001110 1001001 1010100 1001001 1000001 1001100 1001001 1011010 1000001 1010100 1001001 1001111 1001110 100000 1000110 1000001 1001001 1001100 1000101 1000100

ERROR_FAIL_RESTART 30 78 31 36 30 0x160 110011 110000 100000 110111 111000 100000 110011 110001 100000 110011 110001 100000 110100 110001 100000 INTIALIZING SECONDARY REBOOT ATTEMPT

.

While the secondary CPU and positronic brain was attempting shutdown and emergency restart procedures, the T101L's tertiary – and final – computer brain and processing unit was initializing and coming online. It became aware that it was lying supine across the steps of the porch of the Summers residence with only a vague awareness of how that position had been achieved. It rolled onto one side, and levered itself onto first its knees, and then to its feet.

Its primary positronic brain and central processing unit finished resetting itself and rebooting procedures. After a moment, its operating system had finished the process of determining that it was indeed an operating system, and had come online once again.

There was a smoking hole in the synthetic flesh covering its upper torso, approximately the size of a large dinner plate, and the synthetic flesh and skin around it hung in tatters, as did its upper body raiment. Gleaming titanium alloy covered in a thin red sheen of synthetic blood shone through the shallow crater.

There was no visual sign of the secondary attacker.

Scanning the immediate area for several long moments, both visually, thermally, and with audio sensors, it came to the conclusion that the secondary attacker had opted for what humans considered 'the better part of valor'. Further, it calculated that the odds of it finding the human Joyce Summers easily and quickly available within the Summers residence to be of low probability. Further, it calculated a very high probability that one or more of the nearby humans had registered the brief but violently loud altercation, and had made at least attempts to contact the local authorities.

Based upon its previous evaluations and practical experience, the T101L did not find the local authorities to be a consequential threat. However, they could and would delay it.

Calculations finished, it determined to cut its losses and proceed on the information that it currently possessed. It really did not require confirmation of the two locations that the female Harris human had provided. It was capable of performing its own verification.

It also neither needed, nor had time for, immediate repairs to its thoracic integument. It was capable of proceeding for the moment in its current condition.

Its processing capability was slightly impaired, but its main functions were not sufficiently impaired to require a pause in the current operation.

Decisions reached, it proceeded to its commandeered California Highway Patrol vehicle, and entered it and started it up.

Nothing attempted to interfere with it as it drove away.

* * *

_Sunday, November 2, 1997: __Route 23__, Rory Harris property, Near Ojai, Night 11:50pm –_

"Shit," Buckley muttered. He was seriously interested in knowing just what the firing was all about following that second detonation. Even attenuated across the mike of a combat headset, he didn't have any problems identifying the sound of a .325 Short Magnum being fired three times in rapid succession on semi-auto by an expert, nor the sound of an underslung HK 40mm grenade launcher being fired shortly after.

Likewise, he didn't have any problems identifying the sound of a 40mm APHEI round detonating slightly down range...

Apparently, Chief Warrant Officer Michaela Reeves had been forced to engage after all. Or else had chosen to on her own initiative.

Whichever, he knew his people well enough to know that she had had a damned good reason for overriding a command to disengage, else she wouldn't have done it. And Major James Buckley wasn't about to go jogging the elbow of one of his people when they were in the middle of a one on one firefight.

That was too good a way to end up with dead people.

Unfortunately, knowing this, and sticking to it when you were half a county away from said firefight and about to chew your fingernails off down to the knuckles from frustration were two different things. The temptation to joggle was nearly overwhelming. Long minutes crawled past...

"Barkley," Buckley said into his mike, "Condition and status on Reeves. _Now_."

«Ease up, Major. Green lights on Reeves. Repeat, telemetry is green.» Keisha's crisp and coldly precise voice continued, «Target status is moving. Repeat, target status is moving. Tracking light is green.»

«Sorry, Major. Had to engage briefly so I could get clear.» CWO Reeves nearly expressionless voice came across channels. «Son of a bitch was recovering way too fast from the late Dixon's brain hits. If I'd had a second grenade, I'd have toasted his vehicle, too. Dammit. My fucking ride is trashed... Keesh? Inform Swayze I need him to divert _here_ for a pickup. Reeves out.»

«Wilco, Reeves.» Keisha's voice cut across. «Glad to hear you're still among the upright and living. Over.»

"Did you say the late Dixon, Michaela?" Buckley said.

«Yeppers. Affirmative. Am on my way to verify, but saw no sign he unassed his vehicle prior to grenade impact. Sorry, Major. Over.»

"Dammit," Buckley sighed, lowering his head briefly. Fuck it. Grieve later. The mercenary's toast is a wish, not a promise... "All right. Verify and report. Hostile is clear of the AoE? Over."

«Affirmative, Major. Nothing but taillights. And, fuck me sideways. Not a single fucking siren enroute yet, sounds like. Reeves. Over.»

Damn. Buckley double clicked (beat) double clicked his mike in the Black Company's signal for 'Comm silence, I need a moment to fucking think please,' and looked out into the desert night beyond his position. He was aware of Finn's people on background chatter, asking for information – they were _not_ included in the Black Company's comm freqs – and a voice that sounded like Walsh demanding info on the base channel. Fucking yahoos. He keyed them to bare minimum volume.

Off to the side, he was aware of Cheng shaking his head, and singing softly under his breath, "Oh the eagle and the crow, they are waiting ever so, and you'll never see your soldiers any more... "

Buckley grinned mirthlessly. Ayup. The jackal and the kite do have a healthy appetite, always. Sure enough. Especially where the Company was concerned.

Nodding to himself, he gave a single click, a long beat, and another click. "All right, we are live again. Captain Finn. Have your people stand down but hold ready. And cut that fucking background chatter – it surely is distracting. And we do _not_ want a single risk of those inside hearing any of it."

After a moment, Finn's voice came over the Initiative's channel, «Affirmative. Standing down, holding ready. Comm silence, unit freq only live. But – we are not dealing with trained soldiers in there. Doubtful they'd hear anything.»

"Noted and overruled, Captain Finn. Nor do I really give a flying rat's ass for outside opinions in this matter," Buckley said. "Ok. Listen up. Reeves? Status report. Now, please."

«Affirmative on Dixon. Dee-ceased. Hostile has unassed the vicinity. Over.»

Allred's voice came over, «Swayze reports warming up on the pad. Slight delay due to unavoidable fuckuppery on the part of the locals. Probable ETA in twenty, Mikey. Repeat: _probable_ ETA two-zero minutes, your location. Over.»

«Affirmative. Two-zero probable, noted and logged. Over.»

Huh. Assuming that the hostile was enroute to here, and further assuming that it was making best speed in this direction, then... arrival at the outer perimeter gave an estimated time on target of approximately forty-five minutes. So...

"All right," Buckley said. "Just as well you did not have a second four-zero-mike-mike, Reeves. That would have stranded the hostile on foot in a populated area, needing a new vehicle. Here's what you do: once in the air, if you and Swayze can close on it in an open area, with zero risk to outsiders, put the fucker down. Else proceed with planned op. Over."

«Roger that. Am looking forward to knocking on the hostile's door with something a bit heavier than a three-two-five WSM. Over.»

"Good enough. Buckley, over."

«Major?» Reeves' voice cut back in. «Am going on own initiative on my mark. Locals should be inbound before my dustoff arrives. Will initiate standard protocols unless ordered to do otherwise. Over.»

"Hmm." Buckley thought for a second, and nodded to himself. "No contrary orders, Michaela. Repeat: negative contrary orders. Proceed on own initiative. Over."

«Loud and clear, Major. Mark. Over and out.»

"Well, that certainly puts a fine and fucked point on things," Buckley said, quietly. Cheng chuckled from over at his recoiless station. Deliberately, making sure that Cheng saw and followed the hand motion, Buckley reached up and keyed off his comm headset, and his collar mike. After a second, Cheng nodded and did the same.

"It surely do, Major," Cheng said, his voice equally quiet.

"Have the distinct feeling that things are gonna turn into a right and proper Charlie Foxtrot when our guest of honor arrives," Buckley said. "I do not think that our esteemed local cohorts are up to the challenge, and I do not believe that they will register this fact. Do you concur with my assessment?"

"Fucking amateurs," Cheng said. "And yes, that's an affirmative, sir."

"My gut tells me that Mr. Blaisdell is enroute to our position," Buckley said. "I'll ask Keesh to confirm that once we go back online, but my instincts tell me that we could not be lucky enough to have him heading off on a wild goose chase elsewhere based on whatever intelligence he, or rather, it, acquired."

"Gee, has your gut been reading my gut's notes, sir?" Cheng said.

"Great guts think alike. So do ours." Both men chuckled, and Buckley continued. "Not my gut, but my long standing resume as an accurate pessimist tells me that Swayze and Reeves are _not_ going to intercept our guest speaker in a suitable location to put a burst of 30mm chaingun rounds through it prior to arrival on site."

"Once again, your gut has been reading my gut's notes, Major," Cheng said. "Query: am I correct in understanding that Mr. Blaisdell ate two .338 Lapua rounds to the head at under fifty meters, three of .325 Winchester Short Mag AP to probable center mass, and a forty-mike-mike AP-HEI grenade as well, and was still functional?"

"So Reeves implies, and I have never known Michaela to exaggerate an ACE," Major Buckley said.

"Heh." Cheng snorted. "Michaela is so understated about combat events that she makes Brits look like specialists in hyperbole."

"This is true," Buckley said. "Which bodes ill for our little setup here. Therefore, once I go live, proceed forthwith along the lines that we discussed earlier, and make contact with the civilians. And take them under your wing if at all possible, but do please have them unass the AoE discreetly. Understood?"

"Discretion is our watchword," Cheng said, nodding. "Message received, loud and clear."

"All right," Buckley said, nodding. "I make it thirty-five minutes from mark to our best estimated time on target for our guest. And I am going live in five. Do take the Carl Gustav with you. They may need it."

"Roger that," Cheng said. "And you will be doing?"

"What I should have done earlier: phoning home for backup, and shutting down the Not-so-Good Doctor so that I can take command of this little operation. With, or without Brevet Captain Finn's cooperation."

"Good enough. Sure you don't want me backing you, sir?" Cheng said.

"Negative," Buckley said. "You are going to be busy and on a tight schedule. Go. And Cheng? Keep those damned kids alive, please."

Cheng nodded. "Swap me for your Beowulf, please." Wordlessly, they exchanged rifles, and Buckley handed over his ammo pack and magazine bandolier, and accepted Cheng's.

Major Buckley reached up and keyed his comm set back on, and his collar microphone. Cheng slung his rifle and sub-machinegun, picked up his recoiless and the ammo case and belt for it, and went.

* * *

.


End file.
